Between Pages
by Miss Maia
Summary: Coming back home never felt worse. As Katniss tries to adjust to her new life, Peeta also wants to rebuild his own. After Mockingjay, pre-epilogue. All the things we wanted between those thin pages. /* Drama, Romance and... Humor? Oh yeah, Humor. And, of course, Katniss/Peeta. Enjoy! */ Adult Content.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the _Hunger Games_ trilogy; this is just an attempt at fun by playing with someone else's toys.

**Author's Note: **I'm really having fun writing _Hunger Games_ fics. I hope you share this fun with me.

_Coming back home never felt worse. As Katniss tries to adjust to her new life, Peeta also wants to rebuild his own. After Mockingjay, pre-epilogue. All the things we wanted between those thin pages. _

**Between Pages**

**Chapter One**

I watch as the butterfly enters from the ajar window, followed by the calming light from the early spring. Soon the town will be full of those charming creatures flying around, giving life even to this enormous graveyard. Mine are not the only pair of eyes fixed on the bright yellow wings; yellow feline eyes are also studying their movements, watching the insect dancing in front of the long-extinguished fireplace. I glance at him as his head monitors the bug, watching as it circles in the air and raising his flat ears in anticipation of a likely deathly attack. It was another night spent in the living room, and after a month or so, I'm used to sleeping on the almost comfortable couch. Buttercup's presence is something I'm now accustomed to, mostly from the past few weeks. Since he got back here, we kind of built a bond together. He came back longing to find his beloved owner and just found, well ... me. Our night spent mourning Prim together was a surprise for me, but the cat was the closest being that understood my sorrow. So, here he is, crouched besides me as the light from the wee morning enters the room. But his devotion to me is nothing close to how he was connected to Prim. Even though we agree now, it's like there's still that memory about a young, dark-haired teenage girl trying to drown a gaunt kitten in the back of his mind ... so that's why it is so easy for him to ignore me and concentrate on the uninvited butterfly spinning in the air around us.

He hisses lightly, almost warning me that he is going to catch the thing, but also not loud enough so it would fly away. His back fur stands on end, and he stalks forward with the caution of a predator. The happy butterfly don't know what is coming for it.

My thoughts drift to the weeks that passed since I got to District Twelve after my trial and indescribably unpleasant stay at the Capitol. Some memories are still unbearable to think about. My sorrow consumed me for the first weeks; those days are all just a blur. I could not know what was just a dream and what was reality, and my only concrete memory is of scrambled eggs with toast on a cold morning. I know Greasy Sae was taking care of me, helping me to eat and to get to sleep, but even if I could respond, I never did. It was like I was a psychological Avox again. Sometimes, the thought of taking my own life ventured into my mind ... but it was like I was waiting for something, a confirmation. I don't know what. I was exactly the same being I hated for so long; I was the reincarnation of my mother after my father's death. I was just randomly living, a corpse, breathing and eating but not feeling and wanting. Not even the signs of the end of the winter or the idea of going back to the woods helped me. Nothing made me move from my almost catatonic state.

Then he came. Pulling me out of a nightmare, the sounds of his shoveling brought me back to reality. The sight of his thin, yet strong body made me catch my breath. He was here; he was real. The scars of his fire mutt body matched with mine, the sweat from his work combined with my damp forehead from my nightmare. His eyes were not clouded, divided between loving and destroying feelings. They were secure, blue shadows of hope from the boy with the bread. The primrose bushes were fresh, and he spent the rest of the morning planting them in my yard. Peeta coming back to the Victor's Village was the ignition of life for me. I shut my eyes at these thoughts; that's one part of my mind that I'm not ready to deal with now.

But then, after that, I felt different. Eating was not tasteless, breathing was not a task. A week ago, I went back to the woods. It was different, of course, my body not used to the weak sunlight or the long path back. I needed some help getting back home, but Thom was willing to help, carrying me home on his cart. As I passed the debris from the town, I looked away. There are already enough ghosts in my own house without searching for new ones. The day after that, I couldn't get out of bed as my skin was burning from the unprotected exposure. But I heard him. I heard him come in and talk to Greasy Sae and even play with her little granddaughter. I smelled the fresh bread and ate it after he was gone. He wanted to be close to me.

The sudden hiss catches my attention again. Buttercup is ready to make the mortal jump, to attack the tiny shining creature and end its life. His rear paws' muscles are rippled, ready to explode as he jumps for his prey. A small smile crosses my lips as he goes for it, claws extended, meow echoing in the living room, fur flying around him.

Only he misses and ends up falling in the fireplace, lifting ashes around the previously calm room. The slightly shaken butterfly flies out of the window, almost annoyed with the silly cat's attempt.

I can't control it. My small smile bursts into a heavy laughter as the thin cat crawls back from the ashes, his kitten meows showing his embarrassment. He looks up at me questioningly and hisses, seeing I'm still laughing; something Prim would never do. My arms are still around my stomach as he walks away, trying to maintain his pride. As I see the grey footprints he is leaving behind, I make a mental note to try to give him a bath. He'd just hate me even more.

And it is like this, my hair in complete disarray from the night, my laughter still echoing in the room, the ashes floating from the fireplace, and no butterfly around; this is the scene Peeta finds as he opens the door, a warm loaf in his hand and a puzzled look on his face. It's the third time he sees me since he came, the first when he planted the primroses and the second a quick breakfast we shared a couple days ago. I'm sure that if he had any doubts, now he's absolutely certain that I'm nuts.

He keeps looking at me as I try to recompose myself, clearing my throat and adjusting my shirt around my skinny torso. When I look back at him, he's smiling.

"Good morning. Nice to see that you're in a good mood." Always the right words. That's Peeta.

"It was just Buttercup. He stumbled into the fireplace trying to catch a butterfly." My words are weak, and I can't hold his gaze. I don't know why ... maybe he knows that before he got here I was just another ghost in the house? Does he know he is the reason I try to get out of the bed and face life again? Do I know?

"It was probably very funny and ... messy." He motions to the trail of ashes that Buttercup left behind. "I brought some bread. I started to bake again."

I accept the offer as I leave my cozy nest on the couch, headed for the kitchen. One quick search in the fridge leads me to find some butter and cheese, and I know Greasy Sae bought them. For the first time, I wonder who is paying her for all the services. As we sit around the kitchen table, I take a better look at Peeta. His eyes are live, but somehow restless. I can feel he didn't have a good night's sleep, but who am I to question him? My nightmares still wake me up in the night, and something tells me that they will never actually go away. His arms are scarred, just like mine, and his hands were not spared either. But his face is almost as before ... except above his right eye, where I can see a languid flame licked his forehead. The brows had grown again, light golden hairs molding his expressions.

"How was it in the Capitol?" I ask without any specific intention, wanting to have something to talk about instead of looking at how I destroyed the once beautiful boy.

"Dr. Aurelius wanted to run some other tests after you were gone. He just let me come back last week," he says between bites of his cheese and butter sandwich.

"What kind of tests?" I know the question was wrong as he stares back at me, sandwich halfway to his mouth. Of course I should not ask these kinds of things for the same person who tried to kill me only months ago. The same person who once loved me, but was wildly tortured and hijacked to hate and fear me.

"About ..." He swallows hard before continuing. "About some memories I still have. He calls them episodes."

"Like when you asked to be handcuffed?" I really should just shut up right now, but I'm not controlling my words. I never have.

"Yes." The answer is simple, and we finish our breakfast in silence. He excuses himself after, claiming he needs to go back to his house, though I don't pay attention to his motives. I know the truth. He needs to be away from me. Honestly, most of my days I share his feelings.

I call my mother. The second time I've done that, the first being after I found Buttercup. It was just a sort of weeping, as we mumbled excuses and our sorrows for Prim. But this time is different; we're both calmer. She tells me about the new hospital, and I tell her I'm getting up in most of my days. That's the best I can offer as news. She finishes the call saying that she loves me, and I don't have the courage to ask for a visit. I know that the ghosts are worse for her ... and like Peeta, maybe she can't stay close to me right now.

Greasy Sae comes at dinner, frowning, seeing that I barely moved from the couch. I want to tell her that Peeta was here, that we had breakfast, that I'm better, but nothing comes out.

"You should check on the boy later. He didn't show up in the market today to sell his bread. Though I smelled it."

I wonder about her words. Yes, Peeta baked today; I still have some bread left from the morning. No, I didn't know he was a constant visitor of the new small market that is working in town, with the few hundred Twelve residents that had the courage to come back. Yes, he seemed fine in the morning when he visited me. No, I don't know why he didn't go there, but a small ache in the back of my head tells me I should worry.

The phone rings. I look around for Greasy Sae, but she's already gone. How long was I wondering about Peeta?

The kind voice of Doctor Aurelius answers the phone, though I wasn't expecting it. He calls weekly, and lately I was actually answering the phone, but today is not the right day. At least I don't think so; being able to track time is not a quality I share anymore. His voice is steady, asking about my day. He feels my confusion and says this is not our appointment, that he is calling as a friend. I say my day was calm. I didn't break anything and ate. I omit the breakfast and Buttercup's episode, though they were by far the main events of my day. He listens, and then asks about Peeta, and how am I dealing with him now that he is back. Of course, he is Peeta's doctor too. I answer with a deadpan "okay" and wait for him to continue. He reassures me that Peeta is not violent anymore, and at his words, I shiver. Why is he telling me that? When everything is fine, you don't need a constant reminder. Doctor Aurelius waits for my response, but I just stand there silently, the unpleasant memory of fingers closing around my throat coming to life.

"Katniss?" His voice alerts me, and I clear my throat. He has been talking for some time, but I wasn't paying attention. "What I mean is that you are the closest thing he has to a family." Oh, he's still talking about Peeta. "You and Haymitch. Though Haymitch is not someone you can always count on. Peeta will ask you questions about his life before, and I'm counting on you to help him through his old and new memories. That is, if you are willing to, of course."

"Okay." My voice is rusty, and suddenly I want to hang up and run to my bed, hug a pillow, and cry until I fall asleep.

"Just don't push things. Let him come to you, and I believe it will be a pace that both of you will be comfortable with." I'm glad that the conversation is coming to an end when a thought crosses my mind. Why is he calling me? To talk about Peeta? To say that he's not violent, but at the same time needs me to help him through—

"Did something happen—with him?" The question is out of my mouth before I can even think about the consequences.

"He is fine now, Miss Everdeen, but I just wanted to make sure you know about his condition and—"

The phone is still hanging beside the wall as I rush to the door. What have I done? Did Peeta freak out because of what I asked him this morning? My feet brush on the scattered soil of my yard as I jump my small fence, the pain in my knees warning me that maybe it was too soon to start running and hopping again. The sun is long gone from the sky, and my fragile skin is thankful for that. I reach Peeta's house at the same time an almost sober Haymitch is opening the door.

"Oh, sweetheart. I've heard you're moving again." His breath smells like liquor, and I think he is thinner than the last time I saw him.

All of a sudden, my urge to go find Peeta leaves me, and I stop on my tracks, with Haymitch between me and the door. A chill runs down my spine. "Is he all right? What happened?" I don't mean to sound desperate, but I'm really guilty right now.

"He's asleep now." He walks to me and places a hand on my shoulder. I squint at him but don't jerk away. "Just let him sleep. It was nothing serious, but I called the fancy doctor in the Capitol. He says it will happen for some time, but it's nothing he wasn't expecting."

"What ... what happened?" I start to lose my patience with ... everyone actually, and I don't realize I'm gnawing my nails as Haymitch turns me around to usher me back to my house.

"Ask him later, sweetheart. Right now, just try to get some sleep too."

The nightmares come with full force that night. Birds fly above me as I drown, each one of them representing someone that died because of me. _"No, Katniss! No! You can't go!" _the bird yells as its claw buries deep down my chest. I struggle to get free, and I grab the bird by its throat, crushing it between my sore fingers. And then the bird is not a bird; it changes, grows, and transforms. My breath is tight in my throat as the animal morphs its wings and wild features into human limbs. I sink my nails in the rosy flesh; I watch the feathers pooling around me, sensing the metal smell of fresh blood. And then, as easily as it spoke, the creature opens its eyes, revealing a sea of blue.

I wake up screaming with the image of my scarred hands around Peeta's neck still fresh in my mind.

* * *

Thank you for reading. Your reviews is always appreciated. Feel free to criticize; a good critic always helps the writer.

Special thanks to the betareaders: **EsmePlatt95 **, **GracefulWhispersFindsTheTARD IS** and the **Project Team Beta.**

Maia


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

I had slept in, erasing any chances of going hunting today. When I finally open my eyes, the sun is already up, and a probably hungry Buttercup is pacing around my bed. At least I made it to bed yesterday. I stretch, and after a few pleas from him, I'm up. As I enter the kitchen, I see that Greasy Sae didn't come this morning; maybe it's because I'm supposed to be becoming a little bit more independent. I wonder if my call to my mother had anything to do with it. I fix myself a chunk of cheese, giving half to Buttercup. That's the best thing I can do with my limited abilities in the kitchen.

I'm doing the one dirty dish when I hear the knock on the door. I'm still in yesterday's clothes, which I think is better than pajamas. He is fresh, as if just out of the shower. His hair is a bit longer, almost hiding his eyes. His clothes are clean and he smells like soap. I smell like a cat—an ash-dirty cat.

"Peeta," I greet him as I smooth a hand across my hair, failing in the attempt to make it lie flat.

"I overslept today," his voice is also fresh, "I didn't have time to bake anything."

I nod and step aside for him to enter the house.

He doesn't look like someone who had any trouble less than twenty-four hours ago. I bite my lips as I remember Dr. Aurelius' words, that I should try to let him ask for what he needs, and not to push anything. But I'm so curious about what happened yesterday; how he practically ran from my house, and why he is back here today. If he was so upset with me the day before, he'd spend days away from my door.

"Looks like the bushes are liking the new soil." He glances at the primroses before closing the door behind him.

"They blossom in the spring. It was the right time to plant them." Maybe focusing the conversation on something else will help my curiosity and the image of a strangled Peeta get out of my head.

He doesn't have an excuse to be invited to my house. I don't ask why; honestly, I like when he is around. I feel lonely, having only Greasy Sae and her granddaughter as visitors for weeks. I believe he feels this way too, needing someone else to talk to. Or, he is just trying to figure out how to ask me the questions Dr. Aurelius said he would inquire. About what was real, what was implanted in his memory, how he was before the Quarter Quell, and the war ... I see that maybe this is the case, as we sit on the living room couch. He folds his legs under him, taking an extra time with his prosthetic one. Something stings my heart; I think it's guilt again, knowing that I was responsible for this other injury he carries.

"Katniss ..." He bites his lips. Good, I'm not the only one who is nervous. "I need to talk to you. About what happened yesterday. Today Dr. Aurelius called me, and he said you sounded a bit disturbed when he spoke to you." Disturbed, frightened, unsure and a bit curious. I just nod.

"He calls them 'episodes'. It's when I'm filled with images that were implanted in my mind during my time as a ... prisoner." He almost hesitates saying this last word. "My rational part knows they are not, but they feel so real ..." He tries to look into my eyes, almost inquiringly. What am I supposed to say? That it's not real. I nod again.

"And when it happens, I black out, I just freeze, faint or wake up some time after, feeling exhausted. It happened yesterday."

"After you visited me?" I know the answer, but I ask anyway. His body is tense, and so is mine. He clenches his fists.

"There are some things the Doctor calls triggers. Some situations that may start the episodes."

"Am I one of these triggers?" Here I am, asking stuff I'll regret. I thought he would just ignore my question, even avoid glancing at me, but his reaction is completely different. He looks at me with pleading eyes, almost tearing, and they show ... they show hurt. He is offended by my question. One piece of his hair falls between his eyes, but he doesn't try to fix it. He just keeps staring at me and I can't hold his glance. His hand delicately finds my chin, and I'm forced to meet his eyes again. Those blue hurting eyes. Just another way I hurt him.

"No. Not at all. You ... you help me." I don't know what he found in my gray eyes, but it's not what he was looking for, because he releases my chin and looks away. I help him? The way he helped me by coming back? He clears his throat. "I wanted to say that, if you are around me and I start to behave strangely, just go away. I can handle it alone." He is stubborn, but so am I.

"I saw that Haymitch helped you last night. How is that supposed to be facing it alone?" I didn't want to be on defensive, but I'm already accusing him.

"I didn't ask for his help." His voice is sharp, and I know we'll be fighting in no time if we keep this up. Fighting can be one of the triggers. He takes a deep breath and combs his hair with his fingers, settling down the rebel bang. "I want you to promise that you'll leave me alone if one of the episodes starts. I normally just squat on the floor and clutch to something as the images pass."

"Does it hurt?" I'm relaxed again as I reach for his hand, but something inside me makes me stop halfway.

"Not really, I guess it's all in my head." He smiles shyly. But I know what he means; it hurts, for sure. My nightmares make me wake up screaming in pain, and it is "all in my head". He stands up, almost stepping on Buttercup. "Hey you; I didn't see you." He crouches down to pat Buttercup's head. Surprisingly, the cat not only lets him do it, but also seems to enjoy it.

"I heard you had a problem with the fireplace yesterday. Maybe you can use a bath." He looks up at me, and I understand. "Well," he scrubs one hand against the other, trying to clean the ashes from Buttercup's dirty pelage, "I'm going to bake something to bring to the market. Do you need anything?"

I shake my head.

"Okay," he continues, "See you at dinner."

I don't have time to answer as he's already through the front door.

I sit on the couch trying to figure out what to think about these new pieces of information. Episodes. Are they some kind of permanent disease? Will he always have to fight them? I still don't know how they actually affect him. I know it hurts when he's having them, but is there a possibility of an actual physical injury? What if he hurts himself? I'm gnawing on the inside of my cheek at this thought. Buttercup is back on the sofa with me. It's interesting. How the possibility of someone hurting himself can unsettle me—a person who thought about suicide more than once in her life.

The light of the mid-morning sun is filling the living room, giving it a cheerful atmosphere; almost like before, when this place was a home for a family. I'd rather not to think about how one third of that family is dead, and the rest is apart and depressed. As I look around the room, I catch my eyes on the bundle of letters on the hearth. I should have gone through them when I started answering the phone. I think about getting them, but just end up settling more comfortably into the couch. Those letters are nothing really important; if one of them was actually an emergency, the sender would have called already. After a quick nap, I finally stand up and walk to the fireplace, easily crouching and grabbing the bunch of letters. I set them on the kitchen table, sitting on the stool next to it.

I make a pile of Dr. Aurelius' letters. They probably express his concern about the time I was still dealing with answering the phone. A couple are from my mother. I don't read them, not prepared to read the musings of a lonely mother who lost her favorite child. There's one from Johanna. It's funny; she asks if I want to kill Paylor too. She gives me her phone number if I ever want to talk, and I fold the letter neatly. The one from Cressida is informal, but she asks for an interview at the end. I crumple it and search for another one. I scowl at the next letter, unsure if I should open it. It's Gale's.

I remember how I felt when Greasy Sae told me he was working in District Two. I thought I'd be angry, confused, even scared—but I just felt relieved. The letter is short, he is telling me about his new job as a Sergeant, training former Peacekeepers to form the new National Guard. He says he plans to visit, but doesn't set a date. I wonder if he wants me to invite him. I don't know why, but something inside me is saying that he will wait for a long time. The thought that he was possibly involved in my sister's death, staining his hand with her pure blood ... I can't handle it now. Gale is my friend, but I don't know what to think about this post-war-version of him.

A yawn escapes my mouth as I stretch. Buttercup is on the table, meowing and making invisible circles around the letter at the bottom of the pile. It's Peeta's. My name is written in his beautiful handwriting, almost an artist's work. Well, it is an artist's work. He was at the Capitol when he wrote it, under Dr. Aurelius' guidance. I open the letter.

I could face most of things he would have written. Questions about our relationship, musings about the past, or doubts regarding the future. But not this. Nothing about that day, it's just too soon. He starts the letter apologizing about the day I left Trigris' shop with Gale. He's sorry for not getting to me faster, for not being there for me or ... for her. It's a ridiculous quest, even if he had gotten to us, how would he have stopped the parachutes from going off? This was the stupidest thing I ever heard from him. Or at least it's in the top five. It brings tears to my eyes and I push the letter away. How can he say something like that, even after the bushes and ... oh. He wrote that while he was still at the Capitol. I check the date on the crumpled paper. It was just after I came back, that's why it was at the bottom of the pile. When he wrote it, maybe he didn't know how it could affect me; it could even be the reason why Dr. Aurelius didn't let him come earlier. But still ... it hurts. I can't control the sobs that rock my body. I'm lying on the kitchen's floor in a fetal position, vacantly distracted by Buttercup's supporting meows. I think I slumbered, because when I look at the window, it's mid-afternoon. I'm calmer as I try to stretch, and eventually stand up. The letter is on the table, and I read it again.

He ends the letter saying he's coming back to Twelve. He wants to see me. That's all. Maybe he didn't mean it, but his words hurt more than Clove's knives. Why would he apologize about something that wasn't in his control, apologize for the thing that still haunts me in every night of my sleep? You only need to justify yourself when you feel ... guilty. Maybe he wasn't guilty about not being there for me and my sister when we burned alive. It was just a way to show his guilt for something else. Perhaps ... what happened in Thirteen? Strangling me? This line of thought is not as bad as the previous one—the one that considered Peeta a maniac to hurt me in any way that he could. I decide to not mention this to him; firstly because it could not be good for his "episodes", and secondly ... I don't want him to know the effect he can have on me.

I look down at Buttercup. His fur is sticky with grime and saliva, showing his frustrated attempt to clean himself. I'm as dirty as him, but I can handle myself later. A smirk crosses my lips as I innocently call him to the back patio, where I know there is a basin. I fill it halfway with cold water, and warm a pot at the stove before mixing it all. I get some soap from the bathroom and call Buttercup again. He seems a little suspicious, but since I was the one that helped him with his injuries, I hope he trusts me. It's a bad mistake.

As soon as he's in my reach, I grab the poor cat and throw him in the water. I see panic in his eyes—maybe a certain memory of a teenage girl trying to drown him is crossing his furred mind—but I guess it vanishes as he realizes I'm not holding him down. He hisses at me, but the warm water is probably calming him. I gently touch his paw, the one that is injured, and he hisses at me again, but doesn't pull away. I calmly clean his small body, the suds turning black each time I rub him. It was supposed to be a simple task, give a bath to an absurdly dirty cat, but by the end, he starts to get stressed. Maybe the water is getting cold, or I'm rubbing too hard on sensitive spots. He starts to struggle with me, trying to get away.

"C'mon, Buttercup, let me finish this and you'll be able to sleep in the bedroom again!" He keeps hissing, and I'm so determined to finish this that I don't sense when he starts to get violent. "Just one more– _ah_!"

It was supposed to be nothing. I had a collection of Buttercup's scratches before, just small red lines along my forearms. They usually disappeared in a week or two. Only, at that time, my skin was natural and strong, not ridiculously fragile and recently stitched to my body. I'm in a state of shock instead of pain as he is finally free and runs away. I'm staring at the untidy gash on my forearm, the idea that a gaunt cat did this to me still sinking in. But it sinks faster as the blood starts to flow, covering the basil with a light red stain. I try to use my other hand to suppress it, but I jerk it away as the mere touch burns. I'm hyperventilating when I get to the kitchen, searching for anything to stanch the wound. I get a cloth from one of the drawers, covering the bleeding cut with it. I bite my bottom lip as the burning sensation becomes even stronger, but I know this is the right thing to do. I keep it there for at least ten minutes, until the throbbing sensation starts to fade away. Moving the cloth slightly aside, I try a tentative look at the injury; a sigh escapes me when I see that the bleeding has almost stopped. If my arm wasn't already covered with scars, I'd consider being angry at Buttercup. But he was just following his instincts; cats don't think how they can hurt people. Do they?

It's late afternoon when I go upstairs to take a bath. I stood in the kitchen until the bleeding had stopped completely, not wanting to risk soiling my bedroom the way the kitchen is. I need to clean the wound but I also need to clean myself. I take a shower using only my right hand, leaving the injured left arm away from the water and above my head. I manage to get into a robe before searching for a medical kit. There's a high chance I'll find something in the storage, my mother had tons of those things. I'll keep my arm above my head so it won't bleed until—

"Katniss!" The voice is desperate and comes from downstairs. I don't even have time to consider what is going on before he storms into the bathroom, red-faced and panting. "Are you okay?! I saw the blood in the kitchen ..."

I think I'm as scared as he is; I wasn't expecting anyone to disturb the quietude of my bathroom. Peeta's face is almost panicked as he takes my arm to see the injury. "What happened?!"

"Just a small accident—I'm fine." I pull my arm away from him, but it brushes against his own and I can't hold the wince.

"There was ... the kitchen is a mess." He breathes deeply as if understanding for the first time that I'm still alive. "Let me help you clean it." And then, as we get out the bathroom, it's the first time we both realize I'm wearing just a robe, my uneven hair wet and loose on my back. He glances at me but soon diverts his look, blushing. "I'll get a first aid kit. Where do you have one?" He keeps looking at the door while speaking, unsure if he can turn to me.

"There's one in the storage, under the stairs." I adjust my robe's knot, turning my back to him.

It doesn't take long before he is back, carrying a bottle of saline water and a package of lint. We go back to the bathroom so my arm is above the sink. I almost hiss at him when he uses the saline water to clean the wound. He ignores me and just continues his task, steady hands doing an amateur, though efficient job.

"What kind of accident?" he is not looking at me when he asks.

"It doesn't matter." I'm not in the mood to talk about the crazy cat I own. He glances at me, and there's something in his eyes that I can't figure out.

"I just wanted to know."

I flinch as the water flows from the faucet, washing away the dirt from my forearm. He wipes it with a white towel, so delicately that I feel a warm sensation in my stomach while watching his face. It's the same expression he has when he is painting. He uses an ointment he found in the first aid kit to apply a thin layer on the wound; then he dresses it with the lint, leaving me with a familiar bandage. I smile at him, but he doesn't return it.

"Katniss ..." He was not meeting my eyes, but he forces himself to as he continues to speak. "Did you do it to yourself?"

Oh. He thinks I cut myself, that's why he is behaving so strangely.

"No!" I try to cross my arms but wince again as I touch the bandage. "No, I didn't do it, I told you, it was an accident." I try to remain calm, but the defensive tone is already in my voice and in my body's movements.

"I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm worried." He doesn't try to reach for my arm again. I avoid eye contact while trying to give him a fair answer.

"I didn't do it."

"So how did it happen?"

"It doesn't matter!" I almost kick the bathroom door as enter the bedroom. I don't know why I'm not telling him what happened. Maybe I just wanted him to trust me and stop asking questions. He calmly follows me to the room, closing the bathroom door behind him, and turning to me again. My back is facing him as he asks, and I'm thankful for that.

"You never lied to me. Real or not real?"

Our old game. The real or not real questions. When he was recovering from his torture as the Capitol's prisoner, we used to play this game so he'd know what was a real memory and what was drastically implanted in his brain. But this question ... is out of context! Our time in the first arena, the Victory Tour; I did what I did so we could survive. I lied so Snow wouldn't kill my family, wouldn't kill us! I was protecting them, even Peeta!

I don't turn around as I whisper the answer.

"Not real."

I don't see his reaction. He leaves the room and shuts the door. Part of me wants to run after him, explain why I lied, and how I never did it again! Especially now; I wouldn't lie to him now.

I lie on my bed; my hair is still wet, leaving marks on the pillow. I curl up into a tiny damp ball of scars and fears. There's no reason to cry. I already sapped myself dry today, there are no more tears. I cried for Prim, who would know how to explain to Peeta why I lied to him. I cried for my mother, who is hidden away in District Four, unable to face her losses. I cried for Finnick, for Rue, and for Cinna ... but I never cried for myself. As the first tear runs down my face I make a wish to not dream tonight.

But my wishes are never answered.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Thank you for reading!

Special thanks to the betareaders:**GracefulWhispersFindsTheTARD IS**, **EsmePlatt95** and **Project Team Beta**.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

My face was spared. The cheeks are pale, olive pale, not patched up like a ragged cloth doll. The lips are slightly full; small teeth marks from my anxiety leaving a white line on the red flesh. A tiny nose, acne free, the nostrils expanding as I exhale. Not a pretty nose though. I didn't inherit the perfect one from my mother; Prim did. My eyebrows are full again, but I like it that way. It makes me feel more like myself. Everything is almost as before, except for my eyes; the dull grey eyes are a portal to what I've witnessed. They are eyes of a murderer, a predator yet a victim. No innocence there. Another glance to my scarred neck and it's all gone.

I'm not the girl hunting to sustain her sister and mother. I'm the woman on the screen, yelling for the crowd, sailing an arrow into a boy's neck in the name of my own survival, destroying cities and lives for the revolution. I'm the Mockingjay. A snort comes out of me at this thought. I turn away from the bathroom mirror and undress, taking off my robe, choosing not to look at my marked body. The bandage on my arm is still fresh, I think, so I won't change it now. The morning's early lights fill my room as I get dressed, not actually paying attention with what I'm putting on.

My heart is heavy since last night. I didn't sleep well. Every attempt ended up in a suffocating nightmare: mutts gnawing my flesh, Rue burning along with Prim, Finnick's head rolling at my feet ... I spent most of the night awake, hoping my mind would be empty, but instead, I kept thinking of how I messed up Peeta's head. I admit that I want to trust him again, but how will _he_ trust me if I just told him that I lied to him, even before he was hijacked and dangerous to me? Not that I lied for him when he was a menace. I lied for the boy with the bread, not the lunatic rescued from Snow's tortures.

I couldn't face him before to explain why I lied so much. After our first Games I just avoided him, childishly hoping that if I never brought up the problem would simply disappear. And after the Quarter Quell ... that's still a mess in both of our heads. I notice I'm wearing dark pants and a short sleeved blouse when I reach the kitchen. My mother sent clothes to me when I arrived at Twelve, and I didn't have the chance to ask her to send only long sleeved garments, wanting to hide my mutt amended body from the world—or just this stupid bandage that I'm wearing thanks to that stupid cat and that stupid fireplace. I take a deep breath to calm myself.

When I open my eyes, I see a bowl of strawberries on the table; curious, fresh fruits. I believe Peeta left it here yesterday, probably bought them at the small market running in town, considering it's the right season to pick them. He also cleaned my kitchen which was soiled thanks to my bleeding wound. So maybe he's not that angry with me. I don't realize I'm smiling until I see the silly grin on my face in the reflection on the metal bow. I disguise the smile pinching one fruit from the bow, biting it eagerly. Juice flows from the corner of my mouth when I bite the shiny fruit, and I lick my lips to prevent it from dripping on my shirt. It would be marvelous if I had a chocolate cream to go with them. They are so ripe and very sweet. I'm about to get another one when I hear it.

At first I think it's Buttercup, but rule that out realizing it's too low and guttural; that's definitely a human sound. Even to my own surprise, I'm not alarmed or scared. I'm actually curious. I tiptoe to the living room, my bare feet making almost no sound. I enter the room slowly and cock my head to the side at the sight in front of me.

Peeta is sleeping soundly on my couch, his prosthetic leg spread between the cushions, and the other one falling on the floor. One of his arms is under his head trying to find a comfortable position on the narrow sofa, while the other is touching the floor. He is drooling, the saliva already sticky on his cheek. I approach him warily—almost as if I'm pursuing a prey—lightly treading on the wooden floor. His snores stay constant, his breathing regular. Now that I'm closer to him, I see dark circles under his eyes, a sign that he also had a restless night. I didn't hear him, though; it surprises me that I didn't notice someone else was sleeping here. Maybe my keen hunter senses are bended by the weight of sorrow.

I thought he had gone back to his house yesterday, and I don't know what to think of his insistency of staying close to me. Tentatively, I brush his golden bangs behind his ear, just to watch him better. He seems so tired yet so ... peaceful. I trace a line from his forehead, lightly above his scar, to his lips, leaving my index fingertip damp from his drooling. He looks like before, like the Peeta that honestly loved me. A warm sensation runs my body from my fingers to my toes, and I realize I want that Peeta back. The sensation flows out quickly when I remember I was the one responsible for destroying that Peeta.

I pull my hand away when he starts to mumble something, but his eyes are still closed. His lips are parted, full and deep red, contrasting with his pale cheek. A thin layer of hair is growing there; I can see the stubble glowing in the morning light. His nose is bigger than mine but somehow more delicate. When I reach his eyes again I startle, almost tripping backwards, finding his deep blue glaze locked on me. He laughs lightly as I try to recompose, blushing.

"Morning." His voice is hoarse, this being his first word of the day. I want to feel embarrassed or even angry at him, for not believing me yesterday, or for asking that question, but I can't. Those eyes, they are exactly like before.

"You stayed." My voice is also husky from sleep.

"Yes." His eyes are still locked with mine.

"Why?" I didn't want to upset him with the question, but he diverted his glance from me.

"I thought you needed someone around." Oh, right, the cutting thing. He still thinks I did it myself. I sit next to him on the sofa as he manages to get to a sitting position, crackling his back while doing it.

"I didn't lie to you about it. It was Buttercup." He raises one eyebrow. "I tried to bathe him, but he scratched me. I guess my skin is still too fragile." I don't meet his eyes, keeping my glance fixed on my hands on my lap. I see his hand above mine, silently asking for me to look up at him.

"Why didn't you tell me?" There's the small hint of hurt in his voice, and I keep wondering if I'll ever stop hurting him.

"I don't know. I ... didn't think you'd imagine that I did it to myself."

"I don't know what to think about you sometimes." If it was supposed to be a whisper just to himself, it was loud enough for me to catch.

"You used to." A twirl of emotions fills my heart. I can't deny the bit of anger from him. Anger for him not knowing me anymore, even though the responsible for that is probably me.

"Did I?" I part my lips to reply, but close them again meeting his eyes. He is not trying to accuse me; his eyes show honest doubt, and I hope I'm imagining the sudden lack of bright in his blue iris. Regret overpowers the anger. "Did I ever really know you, Katniss?" No. And it's not his fault. He continues before I can answer. "Do you want me to know you?" I change the subject because I don't know how to properly respond to him.

"I lied to you before because I had to. To protect my family." _And to protect you_. I take a deep breath. "But I thought you knew it ... I mean, I was always a terrible liar." I try a glance at him, seeing that he's still studying my face.

"I guess I ... wanted to believe." He looks down to himself, and something in my heart stings. He looks up again, and I hold my breath as one of his hands rests on my cheek, then moves to my chin. His palm is so big and warm and so familiar. I close my eyes remembering our time on the Victory Tour, all the nights we spent together. His thumb touches my lips and I freeze; what is he doing? "Here." He smiles as I open my eyes, seeing a light red stain on his thumb. "You had some strawberry on your chin." I nod, hoping he doesn't notice how this gesture affects me.

Our breakfast is quiet, and he insists on changing my bandage. I let him do it while I'm feigning impatience, but the gesture touches me somehow. He's trying to look out for me; he has since he came back, actually. With the primroses, the breads, even this night here on my couch. I wonder if I should be taking care of him too. He excuses himself to make a call at his house to order some things from the Capitol and asks if I want anything, but I just shake my head. He leaves silently, and I bite my lips at the sound of the door closing. I'm alone again.

Hunting is not an option I still need time to let my arm heal completely before stretching it to use my bow. Though, I could go there to pluck some roots and greens. I could even try to get some white liquor and leave it at Haymitch's in an attempt to socialize. I decide for a trip to the town and a visit to this new market.

Everything has changed and even after the rebuild it won't be the same. This is good; we'll have a different District for a new time, a reborn people. I see that there are crews working on the pebbles, demolishing what can't be saved and reconstructing the town piece by piece. Shiny metallic machines from the Capitol contrast with the shovels and wheelbarrows from our simpler district. Not all of the workers are originally from Twelve; I can see faces of volunteers.

The heads turn in my direction when they seem to recognize me, and I realize it's the first time I've been out of my house to visit the town since I came back. I've briefly passed through it when heading to the woods, but I didn't actually hang around. I make my best effort to respond to the greetings, though I know I'm not friendly. That was something I used to rely on Peeta; he was the one being likeable for both of us.

The trip to town is short, and I buy what I need quickly, wanting to go back to the solitude of my home. I pass Haymitch's house and leave two bottles of his loved white liquor and a bag of daily supplies on his kitchen table. His door wasn't locked, as expected. He was passed out on the living room floor, as expected. He should be taking care of me, not the other way around, but that's also expected.

My house is quiet as I enter, no sign of Buttercup. I wonder if he's gone forever; I honestly hope not, because his presence reminds me of simpler times—before the war, before the Games. I sigh, relieved that today is not a bad day. I don't know if it was the trek to town, or the presence of Peeta, but I'm feeling fine. I remember the doctor's advice and start to search for something to do, because I can't leave my mind unoccupied, ready to be flooded with perverse thoughts.

I search for the things they brought me from the Capitol, the few personal belongings I have. They are in the study: a box with my father's jacket, my family's plant book, my parent's weeding photo, the spile from the last arena and the locket Peeta gave to me. I get the book and ignore the rest, mostly because I'm not ready to deal with such real memories as photos. I don't want to think about my dead sister, my dead father, my far away mother or my lost friend. I clench my hands around the book and leave the room, heading for the couch where Peeta spent the night. It smells like him, like flour and cinnamon, sweat and comfort.

I spend the rest of the day with the book, rereading all the information my father wrote there, and also the part where Peeta and I worked together. His drawings are vivid and real; I can almost feel the fresh touch of the berries and the leaves. The time we spent together working on it is a good memory, but I don't know if it can happen again. Maybe we're both so broken that, even if we tried, we could never be the same. The thought that we could be something else entirely, a mature version of the boy and the girl from the reaping—an honest exchange of fondness—is appealing, but could it be possible?

I close the book as I feel the wicked thoughts trying to encroach the edges of my mind, the memories of the ones I lost, the ones that died so I could survive. I remember Rue's pigtailed dark hair, moving along the breeze as she jumped from tree to tree. Finnick's sea-green eyes flickering, and his teasing mood while he offered me sugar cubes. My father's laugh, which I'm sure it is now something that my mind created instead of his original laugher. Prim's blonde hair braided like mine, her untucked blouse forming a ducktail; the fire. No, I can't let it consume me. I can't let these thoughts subdue my sanity. The sound of the front door opening sends a clashing wave of relief through my body, accompanied by the sweet smell of a recently baked loaf. My mouth twitches into a half smile, but it doesn't reach my eyes.

It is like this for the next few weeks. We don't talk much, which is fine by me. Sometimes, by the end of the day, after an exhaustive afternoon in the woods (more plucking greens in the beginning and, as my arm was healing, actually hunting) Peeta managed to ask a real or not real question. Most of them were easy to answer. "Not real, I didn't try to drown you in the Quell, though you're an awful swimmer"; "Real, we studied together in our childhood, but I don't remember much about it"; "Not real, I'm not a mutt created by the Capitol". Sometimes I even laughed at his questions, but I stopped when I realized that he honestly believed some of the ridiculous things that they'd shoved in his brain. There were a few tricky questions, ones that I didn't feel ready to answer. But I guess he sensed that, and is waiting for the right moment to ask those.

He ordered some material for his paintings from the Capitol, and it's common to see his hands stained with different colors when we have dinner. He also asked for a special ointment that helped a lot with Buttercup's scratch on my arm. Speaking of which, the odious cat reappeared one night, scaling my window and finding a comfortable spot between my feet. He stopped hissing at me, which I take as his apology.

Peeta and I are spending more time together, and one day I decide to ask him about my idea of the book. I've already talked to Doctor Aurelius about it, and he thought it was a wonderful idea. A book to help us never forget the ones we loved, so we should know why we are still here, and why we should try to keep living. Peeta liked the idea; we spent more days together while his skillful hands worked on the person's profile drawing, and my not as steady hands wrote about their lives and personalities.

After the day we made Rue's page, I couldn't get off the bed. My mind was chained to the depression that seems to belong to my genes; I felt disgusted by the idea of trying to live again, as if I was betraying my dead beloved ones, and I should just face the inevitable embrace of death itself. I heard Peeta entering the house, but I wasn't able to face him or anyone else. I really thought I was getting better during those weeks, but maybe the bad days would never go away. I refuse to take the pills the doctor sent; they take me to a completely state of numbness, and I don't feel the pain or sorrow, or anything else, like I'm a white canvas to the world.

Shyly, he knocked at my bedroom's door, but I didn't move. I think I dozed off, because when I gathered my bearings again, there was a tray with lunch on my nightstand. I didn't touch the food. When he opened the door again, I heard him entering in the room to collect the tray, sighing as he saw the untouched food. I was facing the wall the entire time, following the sun's path from the curtains with my tired eyes and was internally relived that he didn't try to talk to me. He was respecting my time, respecting the fact that I just wanted to be left alone.

Later that night, when I woke up from a blank dream, I dragged myself out of the bed, needing to go to the bathroom. I was still sleepy, my mouth and eyes were dry from the previous crying, but I was able to distinguish the bulk on my bedroom floor. It was late in the night, because there was no sign of the sun at the window. But there he was, the same drooling form I found on my couch days ago, spread beside my bed, just a thin pillow under his head. I don't know how to name the rush of feelings that flooded me when I saw him. I tried my best not to step on him as I fought my way to the toilet, and he didn't seem to notice. When I got to my bed again, I was unable to sleep. He was doing that again; he was taking care of me.

After that incident, Peeta seemed more doubtful about working on the book. I tried to reassure him that I need that book, those memories always engraved to be relished in the future. We don't do it as often as before, but we still work on it.

Today I want to have a breakfast with Peeta, and I'm waiting patiently for him. I woke up early, my skin damp from the nightmares, but I'm almost sure that I didn't scream. I saw a shadow on my floor, and for a moment my heart stopped in anticipation. But Buttercup's meow broke any expectations that it would be Peeta. It seems he just sleeps in my house if he thinks I'm in a mortal danger. So, here I am, waiting for him to show up at my door as he's done in the past weeks. It's almost a ritual, and I know I'm growing fond of it. When the sun rises, I know it's still too early for him to come. An hour later I'm actually hungry. Two hours later are more than my patience can bear, and I resolve to go at his house.

This is new. Peeta always comes to my house, but this is the first time I'm the one going for a visit. It makes me feel a little uncomfortable—too vulnerable—but I'm really hungry. And maybe I'm longing for his company. His chimney doesn't seem to be working, and I wonder why, because he likes to bake the breads in the wee hours of the day. I give a tentative knock on his door, but nobody answers. I knock again, with more vigor this time. Still no answer. I push the door slowly, and it gives away easily, inviting me into a dark living room. The blinds covering the windows are slanted, letting just a narrow stream from light come in. The room is lifeless and the kitchen is tidy; Peeta must not have been here since the night before.

"Peeta?" I call him, not sure if he's in the house. I approach the stairs and stealthily start to climb the steps, one by one. "Peeta?" I try again, and there is still no response. I get to the hallway of the second floor, and I see his door ajar at the end of the corridor. The light is off in his room; I can see just a dark shadow from the gap. "Peeta?" My voice is trembling and there's a sense of despair growing in my stomach, but I will myself to keep going. I'm halfway to the door when I hear the muffled moan, like someone is being suffocated. Suddenly, the air is stifling. I can't breathe or move, my eyes widening as the flow of horrible thoughts fills me.

I hear another sound, but it appears to be a scream, stronger than the previous one, though also suppressed. I swallow hard as I command myself to walk, the despairing sensation increasing, and I have to bite my lip so I won't shout. I realize I'm afraid of what I'm going to find in that room, afraid that it could mean that all the progress from the last weeks were in vain. The door creaks as I hesitantly open it, adjusting my eyes to the lack of light. I blink a few times, clenching my hand at the doorframe when I enter the bedroom.

Peeta is on his bed, shuffled sheets and blankets around him. I notice a torn shirt on the floor, leaving him in his shorts. His back is facing me as his face is buried in a pillow, both of his hands yanking at his hair as another scream is muffled. All of his muscles seem to be rippled in an effort to contain himself, and he cries out in extreme pain. He is on his knees and elbows, his body fully covered in sweat; the air in the room is heavy, and a shiver runs through me as I wonder how long he has been in this state.

"Peeta." The word is out of my mouth before I can think about the consequences. I can see his body stiffing at the sound of my voice, and suddenly I realize: he is having one of his episodes. It's the first time I'm present when it happens, and I don't know what to do. I don't think I can do anything as his trembling neck cranes to see me, those lifeless blue pools catching my eyes. Those are not the eyes from before, not the eyes from the boy with the bread. I can't find my voice as he rolls off the bed, catching my eyes again with a deadly gleam on his desperate yet focused gaze. I can't run; I can't scream; I also can't divert my eyes from that disturbing stare. His voice echoes in my head as I remember when he told me to stay away from him when this happens. But how can I do that? How can I abandon him, knowing he was there for me every time I needed support? His hands are cold as they grab my shoulders, hard enough to make me wince. I'm here, a small fragile form between his sturdy arms, my look fixated on his eyes, the same eyes that haunt my nightmares.

"Peeta." I finally find my voice and his steely eyes abruptly soften, his dilated pupils shrinking into teeny black points. His hands lose their grasp on me, and he looks dizzy. He rolls his eyes and collapses on the floor, his prosthetic leg making a different sound from the rest of his body as he hits the wooden surface.

I don't have the strength to push him back to bed; I sit on the floor next to him, putting his head on my lap so I'll be his anchor to reality. I tuck his hair behind his ear as I whisper softly. "Not real. Not real."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Special thanks to the betareaders: **EsmePlatt95, paronomastic, GracefulWhispersFindsTheTARD IS** and **Project Team Beta**. Thank you all for reading and I hope you are enjoying the story.

Have a lovely day,

Maia


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

I don't know how long we stood there, unmoving and invisible to the world. I kept rocking Peeta's head, and, for a long period, he didn't move, making me place my hand above his mouth several times to check if he was still breathing. Each time I held my breath until I felt the steady yet short rise and fall of his chest, his warm exhale caressing my palm. After what seemed like hours, he started to mumble and I coaxed him to his bed. I'm sure he still wasn't aware of my presence as I guided his limp body to the mattress.

Following orders was never my strength; it is not a surprise that I would be strongly inclined to disobey his request to stay away from him while he suffered from an episode. I won't lie saying I was not afraid. I was terrified as he approached me, staring deep into my eyes while using his strong, shaking hands to pin my shoulders to the wall. It's dark in the room, but I know my shoulders are bruised. I feel my them tingling when I move. But I couldn't run; I didn't even want to. And when I said his name, a wave of relief and comfort overwhelmed me as his eyes morphed to a normal state; an exhausted and innocent gleam before collapsing.

I blink a few times, trying to think how the events of the past hours will affect me. I get to no conclusion. Peeta is still out, and I hope he's having a blank dream. I use a damp cloth I found in his kitchen to pass over his overheated chest and sweating forehead. Maybe he has a fever, but I don't know what else I can do for him. I consider going to Haymitch's, though there's an enormous chance he'll be passed out on his couch. I don't know how he helped Peeta when he first had an episode, weeks ago. So I stay, hugging my knees and resting my back on Peeta's bed, waiting, hoping for him to come back to me. I leave the wet cloth over his eyes, remembering how my mother used to do this when the patients had a headache. I can't feel anything but the desire to see those eyes opening again, greeting me and presenting me with a genuine smile; a smile I don't know if he can still manage after all he's been through.

As the hours pass, I know I should eat something, but I'm not capable of leaving him here. Sometimes he trembles and shivers, muttering incoherent words, but I feel that the worst has passed. It's late afternoon when his breathing starts to quicken again, and in a moment I'm at his side, holding his hands as he opens his eyes in confusion. He shoves the cloth aside and shakes his head as he tries to gather his bearings. For a moment I hold my breath, as I see his eyes widening in bewilderment when he looks up at me. I talk before I think.

"It's me, the real Katniss. You're okay, you're home." My hand is on his forehead and I try to lay him back on the bed as he pushes up on his elbows after noticing me. The sound of my name seems to calm him, the confusion in his eyes easing. I get closer and rest my head on his bare chest, my cheeks against the downy hairs of his torso. "Not real." I sigh as he relaxes at my words, tossing his head back on the pillow.

"How ..." His voice is husky from his previous screams. "How long?"

"I got here in the early morning, but I don't know how long ..." My head is still on his chest. A trembling hand finds the end of my braid and tugs gently, starting to undo it. I don't protest.

"I'm sorry." His voice is a whisper. I look up at him. His eyes are glistering, and it makes me bite back tears of my own.

"We're both broken, Peeta. There's no reason to be sorry; you are not responsible for any of this."

"Neither are you." The hand that was working on my braid runs up to my face, and for the first time I'm aware that I'm lying on his bare chest and almost naked body. I blush with embarrassment and anger. I'm flushed to feel his body so close to mine, and also I'm angry with myself, knowing that I _am_ responsible for his kidnapping and hijacking, no matter what he thinks.

"I need a bath ..." he says, but he drops his head back on the pillow, as if just the idea of getting up drained all his energy.

"I'll make us some dinner." I don't offer any help with his bath, honestly afraid that he might accept it.

I leave the room but don't close the door, worried I won't hear if anything happens to him. His kitchen is predictably stocked, so I don't need much creativity to make a couple of sandwiches. But I do need an extra time to prepare something fresh for us to drink. I'm searching for napkins as he descends the stairs wearing flannel pants and a loose white t-shirt. His hair is still wet from the shower, and I see that his eyes are a bit red.

"I feel much better," he says as he enters the kitchen, sitting at the table. I get the tea I just made and join him. My stomach growls and I realize I'm starving. All the events of the day diverted my mind from the hunger, but now it's back in full force. We eat quietly, as we often do, and this gives me a sense of normalcy. Maybe this will be part of a routine after all, like the nightmares. But if I can do anything to prevent Peeta from suffering it again, I will.

He is staring at my braid that I repaired while he was taking a bath. The singed hairs are still there, but I know new and silky ones will replace them. Without warning, he drops his half-finished dinner on his plate, his eyes widening in surprise ... or is it shock?

"Peeta?" My throat tightens at the idea that he is having another episode. But it is not the same despair I felt this morning, because I know now that I can help him. Listening to my voice, to my own surprise, soothes him while facing his episodes.

"What ... what is that?" He points to my shoulder and I silently curse myself for not covering the bruises. I don't know what to say, I can't lie to him, but I don't think I can tell the truth either. I avoid his glance and take another bite of my simple sandwich. He presses his lips together, the rich flesh forming a thin line, and clenches his fists, his knuckles turning white. His eyes are hard, but lack that gleam of insanity that hovered over them during his hallucinations. It's like he is angry.

"Was it me?" His lips barely move as he asks. My silence is his answer; he pushes his stool away from the table, maybe a little faster than his still weak body intended, because he is unsteady as he gets up. He shakes his head and strides to the living room, leaving me no option but to follow him, forgetting my own unfinished meal. He faces away from me, his arms around himself, like he is struggling to maintain control. "You should go." He doesn't turn to me to speak, and I can't identify his intentions in his voice.

"You can't do this." I take two long steps in his direction and touch his arm, but he jerks away. It infuriates me as I grab his shoulder, forcing him to face me. "You can't do this!" I repeat, trying not to yell. "You can't help me and then block me out when I try to help you! I already owe you too much!" I fail to control my voice, shouting the words. But I'm so frustrated; does he know how he has already helped me? Just his presence brings me to life, and helping him through his episodes is the least I can do for the person who saved my life! He shifts to face me, his eyes flickering.

"You don't understand." It's incredible how he can still maintain his tone while I was screaming a second ago. "I could have—"

"What? Strangled me? I think we've already crossed that bridge." I try to touch his hand but he diverts once more.

"Do you think this is some kind of joke?" I don't know if he is trying to reprimand me, but his uneven voice and rebel tears betray him. "I have nightmares of hurting you just to wake up and see it's true!" His tears are running free now and I reflexively take a step back as he advances towards me. He is breathing heavily and stops, turning his eyes away from mine. "I'm sorry, but you should go."

"No." I hold my ground, glaring up at him and steeling my grey eyes. "I'm not leaving you." This sensation is familiar: protect Peeta, save Peeta, die for him if necessary. I made this decision a long time ago, shouting his name in an arena full of Careers trying to kill me. My eyes are calmer as I reach for his hand again, and this time he doesn't push me away. "I'm not leaving you." Considering what happened last time I did, at the Quarter Quell, I really mean my words. He frowns at me, but then softens, squeezing my hands.

"You're so stubborn." He sniffs. Now I'm the one frowning at him, which leads a smile to his face. It wilts as his hand travels to my arm, giving me goose bumps, and he respectfully stops on my bruised shoulder. "I'm sorry." It is a simple gesture, but warms me from the inside as he leans down to place a kiss exactly where the bone is pressing against the skin. "I never hurt you before the hijacking. Real or nor real?" He asks this because he wants to be sure that someday, if he tries hard enough, he'll be able to be like that boy again and incapable of hurting me. I lock my eyes with his kind blue gaze; I want to give him that certainty.

"Real." I softly bite my lower lip as a thought crosses my mind; after all, this is a game for two. "You saved me before and after the hijacking. Real or not real?" He's confused for a moment, unsure of his memories. But he doesn't need them. His answer is here, in my eyes. He takes me into a hesitant hug, and I encourage him by wrapping my arms around his neck. He smells fresh, like a spring morning, and his breath reminds me of tea as he speaks.

"Real."

It only happened a few weeks ago, but I can still remember the look he gave me when he found his answer in my eyes. I spent that night at his house. I didn't even consider arguing, finding some blankets in his wardrobe and making myself comfortable on his sofa—I didn't want to sleep in any spare bedroom; there are no ghosts on the couch. I know we already slept together on the same bed, but that seems ages ago; I'm not sure either of us are ready for that kind of intimacy. He left his door open upstairs, so I'd listen to him if he needed me, though I believed he was finished with episodes for that day. When he went to his room, I remained in his living room, trying to sleep. No matter how light I was feeling, sleep wouldn't take over. I tried every technique the doctors told me: I breathed deeply, counted to a hundred, sang in my head. Not even the invariable rhythm of the rain outside helped me. So I gave up, leaving my cozy spot on the couch.

First, I went to his study, curious to see his paintings. The room was full of canvases, half-finished paintings and wonderful works, but I couldn't stay long. This room is exactly like the one at my house, where Snow threatened me and my family. I guided my socked feet upstairs, making no sound. From outside Peeta's room I could hear his breathing, much deeper than when he was passed out on my arms. I slid into his room, holding my breath as I entered. He was shirtless, but wearing the same flannel pants from earlier. I stood at his door for several minutes, just watching him. He was lying on his stomach, the moonlight filling the stark room, making his scarred, pale back gleam an eerie blue. Most of the freckles on his back are gone, licked by the fire and replaced with artificial skin. But it was so ... so real, and beautiful.

I didn't realize I'd moved until I was next to him, touching his back, my fingers following the line that divided his natural skin and the mutated tissue. His chest continued to rise and fall in the same rhythm, his partly opened mouth drooling quietly. He always does that when he's very tired, I discovered from our nights together in the train on the Victory Tour. I stood there for at least an hour, watching the light changing in the room, the moon parading in the sky as my shy hands traced haphazard circles on Peeta's body. I left the room as silently as I entered, and headed back to my spot on the sofa. I slept like an angel, and no nightmare dared disturb me that night. I dreamed of a young boy, strong and cheerful, his grey eyes shining in the summer's sun, his blond curls dancing as he ran in my direction, his smile giving me an incredible sense of pride and happiness.

The days started to get better; we started to get better. Not that I still didn't have my bad days, drowned in a depressing pool of twisted emotions. But he was there, always there, holding my hands, helping me to eat, reminding me that there was a better world behind all my wistful memories. More and more nights he spent in my house, sleeping on my couch or even my mother's old bedroom. I never asked him to join me my own bed, but I could sense the expectation in his eyes. And when he needed me, I was there too.

Once, I was watching him paint in his study, his steady hands artistically moving over the canvas, his concentrated gaze never leaving his work. Suddenly, he dropped his paintbrush and slumped to the floor, his colorful stained hands closing themselves over his head. I didn't hesitate that time, running for him and holding him close, my own face smearing in paint as I whispered to him, even sang, coddling him as the tremors passed.

I feel more comfortable about spending nights at his house, not just when he needs me. After some persuasion at the market, Peeta was able to buy a chocolate bar. He prepared an amazing cocoa cream and we used the late spring strawberries to go with, dipping the red fruits into that brown marvel. I ate like an animal, forgetting the few things I knew about manners. Effie would have expelled me from the dining room if she ever saw that. I slept at his house that night, not because he had an episode or headache, but because I needed him, to feel him close, to know that he would not be far away from me if I woke up screaming, haunted by the dead that lived in my mind. Sometimes, I wake up during the night to find his form sitting on my bed or on his own sofa, depending where I'm spending the night. I normally pretend to sleep again, afraid that I'd scare him off if I caught him in the act of watching me sleep. But I secretly like it and even feel disappointed when I wake up just to find that the only eyes watching me are Buttercup's.

Peeta is bolder about asking me questions, not only the ones of our game, but honest doubts about his life and our ... relationship. I don't like this word, but I think it is better than "partnership" or "alliance". A week ago he asked about our baby. He knew it never existed, because he had asked the doctors in Thirteen. That question caused something to stir in my stomach, and I just tried to end the subject by saying that it was simply our strategy for survival during the Quarter Quell. I thought he would let it go, but he bit his lips before asking:

"Could it be true?" The thing stirring inside me transformed into a volcano as I almost fell from my chair, blushing deeply at his query. Did he think that we, the nights together, the—

"I have some memories, but I don't know how to place them," he continued, seeing my confusion, and I watched his face that mirrored my blush. "I don't know what is my imagination, what was hijacked and what is real." There was sincerity in his voice, he was intrigued. "Haymitch couldn't answer ..."

The idea of Peeta and Haymitch discussing that—what could have happened in the nights Peeta and I shared a bed—made me spin my chair, turning my back to him. That was definitely something I was not ready to talk about; even though I should, being eighteen years old and all, but I didn't have a common teenage life, not having time to discuss such matters with friends and even someone older. I hated myself for acting so immature, but I turned my head to look at him, not meeting his gaze.

"No." That was enough, he nodded and excused himself. That night we slept in our own houses, but in the middle of my dreams a thought snuck into my mind: a wonder about what it would have been like if something had happened during our nights together. If we had crossed the line I placed between us, because in my heart I know that even the old Peeta would have wanted more than my chaste kisses in the dark of the night. I woke up soaked in sweat, though I know it was not because of nightmares.

The spring developed and I took advantage of it, each week going further into the woods. My vigor and strength is slowly coming back to my body, though my mind is more difficult to heal. The districts are rebuilding at an uneven speed, but some of them are already able to export their products. This means that I don't need to hunt anymore, the meat coming from Ten is more regular each week, and the fruits and grains from Eleven are filling our storages. Even so, I still have that feeling that if I don't hunt, my loved ones will starve. That's something I bring up with to Dr. Aurelius, and he says that it will eventually disappear as my mind understands the new lines of my life; so that may take a while.

I bought new boots, but couldn't be separated from my father's hunting jacket. That's what I'm wearing as I pass through the new gate that leads to the woods, the old fence around the district long demolished and replaced with a new one with the only purpose of keeping wild animals outside, and not curious residents inside. I smell the fresh scent from the wet soil, humid due to the night's rain. I hope that the snares I left in the paths of the small game worked when they tried to run for their dens during the rain. I head in that direction; it is at least a couple of miles into the woods, a place my father showed me a long time ago. I see, but don't kill any game on my way, knowing I will be recompensed when I find the rabbits caught in my neatly tied loops. And I'm small, I'd end up towing the game bag back to town instead of carrying it. The mockingjays sing around me, and I whistle the "Hanging Tree" for one of them, hearing it spreading in the forest as the others copy the sad melody.

A smirk crosses my face as I see the hanging rabbits, most of them already dead from the uneven flow of blood, but I mercifully end the life of the agonizing survivors. They hang at least four feet above the ground, which is high enough to avoid most predators, and I was lucky that none of the larger ones had found this place. Of course, using snares that don't make the prey bleed is also intelligent, something I learned from my father ... but Gale helped. I shake my head to expel the thought of Gale from my mind, filling my bag with the game, tying the smallest of them in my belt. I take my time to gather some herbs, finding some dill and rosemary. Peeta will like to use them for his baking. The sun signals that it is past mid-afternoon and I start to head back to the town. The stream that traverses this part of the woods has swollen, making it harder to cross. But it feels good, the cold water making me shiver as I trek though the continuous flow, soaking the lower half of my body.

I'm about half a mile to the gate when I see a pack of squirrels descending an oak tree. I can't resist their happy screech; I have to take one home to make a delicious stew. I'm fifteen feet from the tree when I kneel on the ground, giving me more balance as I pull my bow, aiming for the fattest creature, a brown fluffy ball that will be the main ingredient of my stew. I exhale slowly as I release the arrow, freeing my bow from its tension. The arrow crosses the space between me and the squirrel's head, right in the eye. I smile to myself, just like the old times. As I approach the tree, the smile fades, and I realize my mistake. I definitely hit the animal, though it's almost ten feet above the ground, suspended by the arrow pinning it on the oak tree. I sigh; such an amateur mistake! Now I'll have to climb the tree to get it.

I take off my hunting jacket, place my bow and game bag at the root of the tree and stretch. I look up to my prey: okay, I'll get you up there. I can do this, of course I can. I've climbed greater heights before; this is nothing new to me. The fact that I haven't climbed a tree for at least five or six months is not important; this is not something you forget with time. I rub my hands so they will grip better on the wet trunk, and also clean my boots from the mud, hoping they won't slip anywhere. I jump to grab the lower branch, pulling myself over it. The effort is new to my biceps, but ignore the small pain in my thigh as I hug the tree to keep going up. The first five feet are good, as I keep leaping between the branch and the trunk, higher with each movement. The squirrel is right above me, the thin line of blood coming from its head heating my cheeks as I use my right arm to try to catch it. It's so close, just a little further—

The sudden crack jolts me, but I use both my arms to maintain my position in the tree. The branch my leg was pressing itself against a second ago is now on the ground; it gave away even to my light weight. It's okay, don't panic. It's not the first time I have an adrenaline rush while climbing a tree. I bury my chewed nails into the trunk, but the wet bark starts to dissolve under my grip. Not good. I know I have to act quickly or I'll end up falling ten feet to the ground, which is never good. I concentrate all my strength on my legs as I prepare to jump to the next branch, where I'll be able to regain control and finally hold the stupid squirrel. I yell at the effort of pushing my body from the trunk, extending both my arms to my target. I'm able to scrape the wood before I'm floating in the air, watching the tree get farther away, feeling as light as a plume.

The image of Buttercup's fearful eyes as he fell into the fireplace is my last thought as I hit the ground.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Special thanks to the betareaders: **EsmePlatt95, paronomastic, GracefulWhispersFindsTheTARD IS** and** Project Team Beta.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **Sorry it took me so long to post this chapter. My problem, as always, was to find betas. But lately I discovered the "Project Team Beta", and they—along with my others betas—are helping me a lot. Any author interested, go check out their website.

* * *

**Chapter Five**

It's soothing, like a sedative to my mind. The continuous sound of the rain falling on me, slowly awakening my body to reality; like little peaked fingers calling my attention. The first thing I see is the oak tree, kingly above me, all the nature's power over an inferior being laying at its feet. The squirrel is still there, pierced by the arrow that is pinning him to the trunk. The water is washing his blood over the tree, and I hold out my hand at his direction, almost sensing I can catch it ...

The sight of my blooded hand is what fully awakes me. I try to sit up, but something in my right knee makes me cry out in pain. My breathing is short and fast as I look down; it didn't look like anything serious, until I pull the edge of my pants up to have a better look at my injured knee. I bite my lips hard not to scream, not just because of the ache, but for the anguishing feeling of seeing my knee not following the line of my leg. It's definitely dislocated.

The pain isn't like the burns, it isn't an agonizing tightness over my skin, it feels deeper, to the core of my limb. I use my left leg as support and manage to sit up, resting my aching back on the trunk. The blood from my hand comes from a head wound; I can sense it's bleeding, but I don't feel dizzy ... maybe the rain softly poking my skull is helping disguise the vertigo. I crane my neck to have a better view of my surroundings; my game bag, hunting jacket, bow and arrows are in reach. The sun is almost down. I've been out for more than an hour. I'm trying not to hyperventilate as the reality is shocking me: I'm in the woods, alone, with a strained knee, soon without daylight, half a mile away from the gate and starting to get desperate. Peeta will notice my absence when I don't make it back for dinner, but then what? Will he come to find me? If he does come, will he be able to locate me?

I try not to think of Peeta as I grab two of my arrows to tie around my knee. I purse my lips in concentration as I use my belt to wrap them on my leg. I'm okay, I'll be okay. I've survived two Hunger Games, have been chased by mutations, have been _on fire_—I can do this. I can drag myself a half mile back to the gate. I look at the sundown: west. I just need to head southeast and I'll be at the gate in no time. I ignore my hunting bag but retrieve my bow and jacket; the branch that fell from the tree is close, and I use it as a cane to hold my body as I try to stand up. The knee is swelling, and I have to do my best to avoid moving it, using only my left leg as support.

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I'm eighteen years old. My home is District Twelve. And now I need to crawl back to that damn gate.

After a few deep breaths, I attempt to fully stand up. My arms are tired, but I force them to compensate the lack of strength from one leg. The dizziness fills my mind as I bolster my body against the trunk, blinking a few times to remain standing as my vision is momentarily obscured. I take a tentatively step forward, holding the cane with both hands. Good, I didn't fall. Another baby step later and I'm a foot away from the tree; in this rating I'll get to the gate in ... what, seven hours? I need to try harder.

The sun comes down before I make twenty feet, falling once in the process. The rain has stopped, which shows me that the throbbing sensation in my head is not only because of the dropping water. In the moonless night I can't see the exact direction I'm going, but at the same time it makes it easier to view any light that may come from town. I need to keep going on, just a little further ...

It's past another half an hour when I can see the lights. I stopped two times to adjust the belt around my leg, holding the arrows in place. The rain has returned—to my displeasure. I'm sopping wet; even my underwear is cold. I'm shaking with each step and I take extra time when I get to uneven ground. My arms are killing me, and my knee is the size of a pumpkin. I'm not thinking straight anymore; the signs of the weak lights coming from the District are my salvation to continue in the right path. I'm not crying, at least I don't think so, but I'm wincing and making a lot of noise with my bad leg at every movement, so anyone at a ten feet radius will be able to hear me. If there is anyone out there to hear me.

Today is not my day. This thought already crossed my mind several times in the last hour, but as the branch I'm using as a cane breaks under my weight and I fall to the ground, rolling over my overtired body, it is almost a joke. Not a lucky day. My hand is quivering as I try to reach for the broken stick, but it's useless; I won't be able to get up again. This is unfair; I don't deserve a night in the woods after all that has happened to me. This will be even more uncomfortable than my nights in the arenas. My knee is pulsating; I can't manage to keep my head up; my sight is just a haze of darkness and a growing orange tiny light ... or is it approaching? The single point is blurring into two ... three ... I think I'm hallucinating until I start to hear the calls.

"Miss Everdeen!"

"Katniss!"

_Here._ Did I say it out loud or just imagine it? I don't even know if my mouth is able to move as I rest my head back on the trunk behind me. "Here ..." It's nothing above a whisper, and it's muffled by the sounds of boots sinking in the mud around me.

"Katniss!" This voice—this is no imagination. It's him.

I don't know how they managed to find my soaked form spread at the tree's root, but the warm and soft lick that greets me is a hint. I jolt at the sudden sequence of barks, unprepared for such an alarm after the serenity of the woods.

"He's found her!"

"Where?! Katniss!"

"Over there!"

The voices seem far away, like coming from another dimension, spirits playing with my troubled mind. But I'm almost sure I'm not hallucinating when I feel light again, like a feather, the same sensation from when I floated to encounter the ground earlier. Someone tossing my head behind and forcing me to open my eyes is what keeps me from fainting. I know my eyes are open, but I can't see anything. The voices are still here, mostly male. I think I'm being carried.

"That's okay, I got her."

This voice again ... Peeta?

"But—"

"Use the hammock."

"I'm fine."

"A little help here!"

I can't say his name before being finally engulfed by the hazy darkness of unconsciousness; the voices dancing around me make no sense.

* * *

It's a dreamless sleep. I don't know if I'm awake or still trapped in the daze of semi-consciousness. I see shadows, faces. But I don't recognize most of them. Someone is close to me, and I want it to be Peeta, even though I'm not sure. I feel a cool sensation over my lips, and then something jabs my arm and I'm back to the gray limbo of emptiness.

* * *

The abrupt pull at my leg and the scream filling the room awake me. I'm aware I'm the one screaming as the pain is spreading through my body from my knee, embedding my thigh and torso. Strong arms hold me to the bed as I start to thrash, unable to control my body. I'm still wriggling when the giddiness takes over, and this time I don't protest, welcoming the dullness that is pushing me away from the ache.

* * *

Something is stroking my hair; calloused hands massaging my temple. I start to mumble.

"Shh, go to sleep. You're safe now." My eyelids are too heavy, and I silently obey the request.

* * *

_"No, Katniss! No! You can't go!" The bird is shouting from above me as the flames consume my body. "You can't go!" A yellow braid covers its wings, the white feathers raining on me. They also catch on fire as they touch my flaming body. "I have to," I answer to the flying creature, and I really mean it. I need to go, go away from all of this, turn my body to the fire, offering it as sacrifice for all the ones that died for me. Claws bury into my chest, deep into my torso. "No, Katniss!" I feel the flames crawling from my mouth as I speak. "I'm sorry little duck, I have to go." _

The scream dies in my throat before I can release it. I'm gasping as I open my eyes. Where am I, what happened? The room is dark, a single candle on the nightstand unsuccessfully trying to illuminate the place. I try to sit up, but a sharp tug in my leg stops me. I wince and toss my head back on the pillow, giving up the idea of moving.

"Katniss? Katniss, are you awake?" I reopen my eyes at the sound of his voice, and suddenly everything flows through my mind: the woods, the fall, my knee ...

"Pe..ta?" My voice is hoarse, weak, and my dry throat hurts.

"Here." He gets a glass of water and uses his hands to support my head as I slightly turn to my side to touch my lips at the glass, relieved by the cool water filling my mouth. After a few gulps I shake my head, and he puts the cup aside before helping me rest my head on the pillow again.

"What happened?" The scenes in my mind are blurred flashes; I don't even know how I got here. Actually, where is "here"?

"We found you in the woods. You had a cut in your head and a strained knee. We used the dogs the Capitol sent the District to help to find the bodies in the wreckage." His voice is also tired.

"How long?"

"Couple of days. We needed to use a lot of sedatives to put your knee back in place. The doctor said you may feel queasy when you wake up. Are you okay?" My head is clouded and it's hard to concentrate on what he's saying. I try focus only on his question.

"I don't know ... but I'm not hungry." I look down at myself, trying to sit up again. Peeta helps me this time, adjusting new pillows behind me, his hands touching my shoulders as he does it. His touch gives me an incredible sense of peace, and suddenly I'm calmer, unconsciously adjusting the loose t-shirt I'm wearing that can only be Peeta's by the size. I push the covers aside to check on my limbs. My right leg is covered by a thin yet hard fiber tissue, from my ankle to the middle of my thigh. I pass my fingers over it, feeling its grooves. Seeing my puzzled look, Peeta speaks again.

"It's to support your leg and prevent you knee from moving while it's healing. You'll have to use it for three weeks." He gives me a weak smile, and I study his face for the first time. He has deep circles under his eyes, his clothes are rumpled on his body, and there's a blanket over the chair next to my bed. I think he stood there the entire time I was asleep.

"I ... I need to go to the bathroom." I look around in the room and see that I'm not in my bedroom. Peeta sees my questioning look.

"You're at my house, let me help you." I can't fold my leg, and I know I'm too weak to protest. So I just let him raise my body, carrying me to the bathroom. He barely seems to be making an effort, which means that either I'm too small or he's getting stronger again. He delicately places me over the toilet's lid, and I nod to his unspoken question if I can handle myself. He exits the bathroom, and I hear as him go downstairs.

I'm very proud of myself, seeing as I can still use the bathroom alone, because it would be a little awkward to ask for Peeta's help. When he knocks at the bathroom's door, I'm trying to stand up. He enters and holds onto my waist to prevent me from losing my balance.

"You should have waited for me." He smirks as if remembering something. "It's going to be difficult for me to help you out like this, you being so fragile and stubborn."

"I'm not fragile." I don't have the strength to truly argue, so maybe he's at least half-right. I frown as he picks me up like a baby, which destroys all my possible arguments that I'm not weak. My hair is loose and covering his chest as I rest my head on his shoulder.

"You scared the hell out of me, you know?" he whispers in my ear, placing a soft kiss on my head. It makes me shiver.

"I fell from a tree." I say shyly, whispering against his shoulder. He fakes a laugh.

"We were speculating how you got that strained knee. Haymitch was sure you had tripped while chasing a wild dog." I know Peeta is trying to hide his smile. This ridiculous idea does sound like Haymitch.

"Shouldn't it be reverse? The dog chasing me?" I raise one eyebrow.

"You know Haymitch. He thinks you're tough."

"I am tough!" I playfully slap his chest as he uses his foot to open the bathroom door. Now, he really laughs. "Wait, I think I need a bath." I realize I'm wearing the same underwear from two days ago.

"Oh, I'm sorry." He takes me back to the bed and then turns to the bathroom. "I'll get the tub ready. The doctor said you can wash the material on your leg."

"Doctor?" For the first time I wonder who was the one attending me. Peeta blushes a little.

"I ... I called the Capitol. They sent a doctor that was in a closer district as soon as we got you here. He'll come back in a week." He disappears into the lavatory, ignoring the stream of protests forming in my mouth.

The Capitol! Great, now they will be calling, visiting and whatever else. I really don't think that was necessary. I take a deep breath and look around the room. The windows are closed, but I can see it's still night; there is no light glowing from the cracks. I smooth my hair and wince, feeling a sore spot. I stroke the injury; a small rough scab. Maybe I got stitches. The sound of running water fills the room as Peeta reappears. "Ready for your bath?" He looks like someone that needs a good night of sleep, though I'm probably even worse than him. I nod as he lifts me, once more guiding me to the bathroom. He is about to leave, dropping me on the toilet's lid again, when I hold his hand.

"I'll need help." I say quietly. His eyes hesitate, but not his body as he knees in front of me.

"Are you, are you sure?" He asks, meeting my softened tone. I blush.

"I'll leave my underwear." I hold up my arms and he understands, freeing me from my t-shirt. I'm wearing the same top from when I went into the woods. I bite my lips when I look up at him, but his gaze is firm into my eyes. I wonder how I would feel if it wasn't.

The shorts require a little extra attention, but Peeta has very talented hands, being able to free me from the garment and not stretch my wounded leg. It's the first time he has such access to my scared body; the paths and uneven skin are reflecting in the weak light of the bathroom. Suddenly, I feel so vulnerable that I cross my arms over my chest, not being able to maintain eye contact with him. Without a word he picks me up, and slowly places my lithe form into the warm water. I purr in relief, feeling every muscle and sore limb relax.

"Ah, it feels good." I close my eyes in contentment. When I open them again Peeta is blushing deeply, and his eyes meet mine for a second, shining intensively with something I can't figure out. He diverts them from me.

"I'll wait for you in the bedroom." He clears his throat before getting up, leaving me alone.

After the bath he helps me to dry off using a soft, white towel. I keep my underwear while he is in the bathroom, but I manage to change them once I'm dry and alone. Apparently, he made a visit to my wardrobe, offering me my own clothes. I'm fresh when I lay on the bed again, feeling extremely tired. Peeta pulls the covers over me, winds my damp hair over the pillow and places a kiss on my forehead. I smile.

"Now get some sleep," he says kindly, a protective hand on my cheek. We lock our eyes for a moment, and under all the fatigue, his eyes glow with something else. Something I can't put my finger on, or maybe ... maybe I don't want to admit it.

"Stay." The word is a discreet murmur, but I know it was out loud when he stops, meeting my eyes again.

"I'll be downstairs, don't worry." Like the past weeks, we will share the house during the night. But tonight I want more; I need more. Just sharing a roof won't be enough.

"Stay." I repeat and reach for his hand, knowing he'll understand. He quietly takes his shoes off. I release the breath that was tied in my throat when he lies next to me, wrapping his arms around my body, carefully avoiding my right leg. He nuzzles the back of my hair, the warmth from his mouth making a shiver run down my spine.

"I missed our nights together." His mouth is next to my ear, brushing his low voice across my neck. I fall asleep with the steady rhythm of his breath.

* * *

"Ha, I knew it!"

His voice is husky, but I believe he's basically sober. After baking some bread, Peeta left for the market and asked me to stay in his bed, and I agreed with him, knowing I wouldn't be able to freely move anyway. He left the book we were working on as a distraction, but I was getting restless very quickly. I know I'm limited to indoor activities for the next weeks, but I wanted to at least be able to roam around the house. So that's why I managed to limp to the door, opened it, and was trying to climb down the stairs, still not sure how. Haymitch's voice from downstairs alerted me.

"I knew it. The boy wanted to leave you alone, arguing you'd stay quiet in your bedroom. I told him you needed a babysitter or you'd try to limp around the house and end up with both knees patched up!" He looks up at me while he's ascending the steps. I'm easy prey, gripping the handrail to prevent ending at the bottom of the stairs faster than I intend to.

"I don't need a babysitter," I mumble in response.

"No. You need a guard, a full escort of Peacekeepers." I smirk at him as he slides one of his arms under my shoulders, supporting me as we both head down the stairs, one careful step at a time. "There's some bread for you. I ate half, but there's still plenty."

"So now you're stealing the food from the sick?"

He just simpers as response.

As we sit at the table, he grabs a flask from his jacket. I'm not surprised; this is still Haymitch. The smell of the recently baked loaf makes me almost drool.

"You gave us some trouble, you know?" He hands me a plate with some of the delicious bread. "Peeta almost had a heart attack. Even before the sun was down he was in the town looking for your sorry ass. And when he didn't find ya, well ... he even woke me up!" He finishes his sentence by robbing another chunk form my plate.

"I didn't mean it ..." I don't know if he is lecturing me or just being Haymitch.

"What I mean," he's chewing as he's talking, spitting tiny crumbs of bread mixed with liquor on the table, "is that you should be thankful for him. He really cares for you." That's no news to me. After our night of drinking before the Quarter Quell, Haymitch knows that _I know_ I don't deserve Peeta. And none of us know why he insists on investing in me. I would have given up on me a long time ago, even before the Games.

"I know that." My leg starts to itch and I use a fork to reach my knee under the fiber cloth.

"That's gross." I don't need to look up at Haymitch to know he's mocking me. I use the same fork on the bread again, licking it. "I don't know what the boy sees in you." He's still in his playful tone, so I ignore the hint of truth in his voice.

"That's a mystery to both of us," I say as he pours a transparent and rough smelling liquor into a glass. He takes a swig before I continue. "You're not leaving until he's back, right?"

"That's right sweetheart." A burp ends his sentence.

"Haymitch?" I'm not sure I should continue, but I need someone to talk to. My mother is far away, Gale wouldn't be an option even if he was here, Peeta is the subject, Johanna is ... well, can be an option in the future. But right now all I have is my half drunken mentor. I really need to make new friends. "Do you ..." I can't meet his eyes, those blood shot eyes that can see through me, "do you really think he loves me?"

He places his cup full of whatever-it-is on the table, rubs his eyes and takes a deep breath. I immediately regret asking. "Katniss," I force my glance to meet his, "you can be a lot of things: stubborn, selfish, egocentric, immature ..."

"I got it." I roll my eyes at him.

"Anyway," he clears his throat, "despite all that, I do believe you are not stupid. Look around you, darling. Put the two and two together."

"But I don't know—"

"No." His voice is steady, hard but kind. He is really trying to help me. "You _do_ know. You're just afraid to see it."

I can't answer him. My first thought is a protest, an angry request of explanations. But the almost mature side of my brain tells me to hold on to that information, hold on to the possibility that it's true. Perhaps I am afraid to accept Peeta's feelings. Afraid to have someone else to lose in the future. The kitchen grows silent as Haymitch takes another gulp of his liquor.

"So ..." he starts calmly, turning me away from my wonder, "what was it? A wild dog, a bear?"

"What?" I frown at him.

"What chased you so you'd fall into a hole and strain your knee," he asks matter-of-factly.

"Nothing chased me."

"You trip into a hole or something?" He is smiling as he pours more liquor for himself. I don't look at him when I answer.

"I fell from a tree." I'm staring at my leg as I speak, adjusting it above the other chair. Haymitch squints at me, raising one eyebrow.

"Are you telling me that the oh-so-mighty Katniss Everdeen, who survived two Hunger Games, scaled fifty-foot tree live on television, fell from a sapling in her back yard?" I'm purple by the time he ends the phrase. I don't give him the pleasure of my nod. Though he doesn't need it as his guffaw floods the room, awaking anyone in the Village.

"It's not funny, I was wearing new boots and ..." I stop justifying myself seeing that he continues to laugh, spitting half his liquor on the table. "I really would leave the room if I could move." There are actually tears in his eyes. This bastard.

"You know," he gasps for air before continuing, "you should keep the wild dog story."

"Shut up." I can't suppress a smile as I take a sip of my ice tea.

Haymitch can be vulgar and coarse, but he knows how to put an idea into my mind. He said I might be afraid of really accepting Peeta's feelings.

I want to show him I can be brave.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Writing this chapter was a very interesting challenge in the first-person point of view. I truly wanted to be faithful to only Katniss' POV, though it would be easier to write as someone else's. To write a scene where the main character is half-conscious was an adventure, and your opinion about it would be very important to me. Please let me know what you think of it in your review or PM.

Special thanks to the betareaders: **EsmePlatt95, paronomastic** and** Project Team Beta**.

Thank you for reading,

Maia


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

"No, she's fine."

The voice awakens me, overcoming the last strength of my sleep. I blink a few times, yawning while trying to gather my bearings.

"Yes, yes. In a few days, he'll be back."

I place my hand at the other side of the bed, feeling the cold cotton sheets.

"Can you write it down? Okay. It's 000-573-225. Yeah."

I use my elbow to raise my body, searching for Peeta. The room is empty, and his voice is coming from the hall, where the telephone is.

"I'll ask her, don't worry. My pleasure. Bye."

I hear the sound of the phone being placed back on its hook, confirming my suspicion. Peeta's heavy steps warn me that he'll be in the room soon. I lie back on the bed, hearing the birds outside celebrating the early morning. Last night, I went to bed too early, even before dinner. My day with Haymitch was ... different.

By three in the afternoon, he was already passed out on the couch, which I think is one of his new records of sober time; he kept mumbling in his sleep, sometimes jabbing his always present knife in the air, fighting his long-dead enemies. I fell asleep on the sofa parallel to Haymitch's, and when I woke up, I was cozily tucked into Peeta's bed, snugly surrounded by cool pillows and warm arms. I bit my lips, caressing the protective forearm around my waist, playing with his golden downy hairs, listening to his exhalation against my nape. I don't remember having nightmares.

He appears at the door, not surprised to find me awake. "Good morning," he says warmly. His smile widens as he approaches the bed, sitting on the edge of it, one hand delicately resting on my good foot. "Did you sleep well?" He's still smiling as he asks.

I nod, diverting my eyes from his face to his covered chest.

"I was a bit worried with you sleeping so much, but the doctor said it's normal." He plays with my toe, which almost makes me giggle, but I suppress it, chewing my inner cheek. He stops teasing me and leaves his hand on my ankle, softly stroking it as he comes closer to sit by my side. I'm still silent as he speaks again, his voice more serious.

"I hope you didn't mind sleeping here—" He bites his dry lips, "with me, I mean. I didn't want to wake you up, and since the other night you didn't—" I need to talk before he can go on, the suddenly uncertainty in his voice and eyes hurting me somehow.

"It's okay." I want to say more, I want to tell him it's been a long time since I last felt so secure, so cared for, so ...

"Do—" His voice stops my train of thought. "Do you want to sleep here again tonight?"

I can see that he's nervous asking that. I know why; he fears my rejection. Even after all that happened between us, he still fears that at any wrong word he says, I'll be fleeing away to hide in a dark closet. I don't know if he's entirely wrong about that. He'd be devastated if I denied his request, but that's not the reason why I use my elbows to push me to sit closer to him and then gently stroke his cheek, feeling his recently shaved skin. His bigger hand meets mine, pulling it to his lips, where he places a soft kiss on my palm. The word feels sweet in my mouth as I speak.

"Yes." I look at him, seeing his smile. I can't help but smile back.

"Your mother called." He stands up and stretches his back, and I notice he's still wearing his pajamas. I give him a skeptical look at his remark, to which he responds with a shy grin. "I had to call her, Katniss. She's your mother. I gave her the number from the doctor at the Capitol. She wants to talk with a specialist about your knee." He sits down at my side again. "She also said that she sent you some mail about your Victor Account at the Capitol's bank. And, of course, she wants you to call her."

She wants me to call because visiting is not an option. Even if I were walking normally, I'd still have the restraining order to remain in District Twelve. I take a deep breath, smelling the goodies from Peeta's kitchen. I'll call my mother later.

"Help me get downstairs." I hold out my hands for him as he laughs, easily picking me up.

Even though my leg is a burden, I manage to spend lovely days without moving so much. Peeta is the main reason why I haven't totally freaked out yet, not being able to go into the woods or the Meadow to clear my thoughts. We spend entire afternoons working on the memory book, the most recent additions coming from Haymitch, who is also more sociable lately.

I like to watch as Peeta paints—not his work exactly, but how he concentrates while doing it. I catch myself staring at him more and more sometimes, or thinking about him ... watching him bake, paint, clean his ovens, all from my unmoved spot on a chair. My eyes compensate for my lack of movement, traveling along his body, his muscles, his strong arms and the unsteady pace of his prosthetic leg. I don't hold his glance, but I know he smiles when he catches me doing it.

We sleep together again, like during the Victory Tour. When I wake up screaming from the nightmares, he's there, next to me, holding me close. We never kiss on the lips. He always floods me with pecks on my forehead and cheek as he tries to calm me down, but I don't respond. Sometimes I want to, but there's always something stopping me halfway. My brain is divided between craving Peeta's touches and not wanting to touch him back at all, which is very confusing. Haymitch's words from the other day still haunt me: am I afraid to let it go? Afraid to see what can happen with Peeta and me?

The same Haymitch found some crutches in his basement, which I'm starting to get used to. I still have two more weeks with my static leg, and I'm getting really tired of being carried to anywhere I go. So it is thanks to Haymitch that I find myself today standing in Peeta's kitchen, fully concentrated on the dough in front of me, rolling it cautiously on the counter, swearing under my breath as it fails to become homogeneous. The crutches rest at my side, and most of my weight is supported by my good left leg. My hands are covered in flour, and I have the slight suspicion that some of it is powdering my hair. I sigh as I discard the roll, now using my hands to knead the stubborn dough, dipping my nails into the light brown mass.

I'm so focused that I don't notice when the constant sound of the mixing eggs next to me stops, and the two skilled hands that were working on them deviate their attention to me, sneaking around my form. I gasp as Peeta wraps me into an embrace. I'm startled for a moment, but then I relax between his arms.

"Don't give up the roll. Just a little more and you'll get it." He speaks from behind me, which means he was watching my baking attempts.

"Easy for you to say. Everything you touch ends up delicious," I mumble as I release the dough. I use greasy fingers to brush my hair behind my ear.

"What if I cooked you? Would you be delicious?" His tone is playful, and I smirk at him, turning around between his arms, facing his body now close to mine. My smirk disappears as I look him up and down, biting my lips. He's so close to me, I can feel the heat of his body ... or is it the oven? His apron is stained with different colors; maybe it is the same one he used to paint yesterday. His hair is loose, longer than I like it, and he has to pull his curls aside so I can see his eyes. Those eyes. They lock on mine, and I see something flickering on them, sparks of light and dark in the blue.

During this week sleeping beside him, I saw this glance only once: the night when I woke up after getting hurt in the woods, when he helped me to bathe. Back then, his eyes were like they are now, shining with this need, this hunger, this desire. Yes, I can place the feeling now; that's definitely a predator's glance. I lick my lips, nervous with his deep stare. Those blue orbs are scanning me, running through my skin and bones to enkindle my core. I'm nervous because ... because I like it. I like the stare and the increasing heat in me. And I also don't know what to do with it, and this uncertainty scares me.

You know what? Time to be brave.

I don't close my eyes because I want to watch it, watch his reaction as I cling to both of his arms, pulling him closer to me. His hip is pressed against my belly, our height differences something I hadn't thought about until now. I look up expectantly, hoping he'll understand my request: I can't get on my tiptoes to reach him. One of his firm hands rest on my waist, and he leans down to meet my lips with his own. For a brief moment, all I can taste is cinnamon.

But the moment vanishes and it's all Peeta, his full lips on mine, eagerly asking me to respond the kiss. I don't want to hesitate, but I do as I slowly part my own, welcoming his coy tongue, allowing it to explore my mouth. He doesn't emit a sound as both his hands work on my waist, pulling me up to the counter. I exhale loudly as I feel my weight against the cool marble, contrasting with the warmth of the body next to me. My right leg aches, but my mind is not paying attention to it right now; it is blindly focused on both my hands that I found on Peeta's curls, desperately dragging him closer. He obeys, placing himself in from of me, my good leg straddling him. His sturdy hands travel to my back, and for a second, he breaks the kiss. I meet his eyes briefly before he seals the distance between our mouths again, closing my eyes as he moves to my neck, his tongue licking whatever he found there, from flour to sweat. I toss my head back, because this feels so good, and at the same time seems to awake something new inside me. No, not new; I've felt it. Twice, but vividly enough to remember. The cave, the beach ... my mind buried those memories with the sorrow that followed in my life, but our actions right now are digging it out again.

The beep from the oven's alarm makes us both jolt, and I wince at my leg for the first time. Peeta notices it and places me back on the ground, stuttering between sharp breaths. "I'm sorry, sorry, your knee ..." His hands don't leave my waist, and I'm thankful for that because I don't know if I can maintain balance right now.

"I'm fine." I'm also panting as I speak, the heat inside me still growing, principally in my lower stomach. I force myself to look up at him, seeing his flushed face, his damp and full lips apart breathing deeply. His hands now rest on the counter behind me, trapping me between his arms. Suddenly I feel the urge to do something else, as the blood is flowing to my face again. "The bread," I blurt, pointing to the oven.

Peeta twists to face the hot oven, freeing my body from his arms. As he opens it to retrieve the bread, I grab my crutches and limp away from the kitchen, needing to get out of the room.

Oh well ... that was intense.

I hobble my way through the living room then slouch on the couch. My eyes are still closed when Peeta joins me on the sofa, but he doesn't touch me. I can feel the insecurity in his voice.

"I'm sorry. I should have controlled myself." His fits are clenched tightly, his head facing the wall.

"Stop." It's no secret that I'm awful with words, but I thought I was a bit better with my actions. If Peeta is being crazy enough to even dare regret what just happened, he must be blind to not realize I was enjoying it. I'm about to protest when another thought crosses my mind. "You—you didn't want it?"

His eyes dart up at me, and both his hands reach for mine.

"Of course I want it! Katniss, I've wanted this and much more for so long! I just ..." He shakes his head and kisses my hand. "I don't want to push things."

"Let's stick with what we know." I try to say it softly, but it sounds more like advice.

He raises one eyebrow at me. I use my arms to prop myself closer to him, caressing his hands. "I mean, we can kiss. We already did that before, right?" My lips curl up as I say it.

His smile is genuine and relieved as he leans down to me, meeting my lips softly.

"That's okay with me."

"Good." I smile back as I return the kiss.

That night, we kiss before going to sleep, even though it is not the same explosion from before. I'm glad about it, because I don't know how to do that in the horizontal. I'm having trouble getting to sleep as I wonder: if we ever got to _it_, how would we do it? Screw _we, _how would _I _do it? I don't have any experience in romantic relationships. My only one was mostly fake, and the other information I have came from talkative girls tattling about their boyfriends when my problems were limited to what I'd bring to my sister for dinner. I need someone to talk to, and it has to be a woman. I'm still thinking about this when I fall asleep, comforted by Peeta's hand on my shoulder.

* * *

_"Katniss."_

I wake up at the whispered sound of my name. The forgotten light from the bathroom weakly illuminates the room, and I blink a few times to dismiss the haze from my sight.

"Kat-Katniss."

It was not in my dream; the sound is real. I turn to my side to look at Peeta, my heart stopping when I see him. For a moment, I think he's having an episode, and I almost shake him awake. But at a second glance, I hesitate.

He's trembling lightly, and there is sweat forming on his forehead and bare chest. His hands are clawing the sheet at his sides, his knuckles white in the effort. He is mumbling my name, but it's not a call of help. It's kind of a mantra, a sequence to achieve something. My eyes follow the line of his body, watching the sweat streaming at the side of his face; eyes rolling in his sleep; lips parting slightly as he says my name; his chest rising and falling faster at each breath. As my eyes continue to go down, I suddenly gasp and jolt, turning back to my side of the bed. I silently wince as my leg fails to curl up into a protective ball, and I know my cheeks are burning as I curse my own childishness.

Honestly, I was not prepared for this.

The bulk in his shorts removes any doubt that he was having an episode. That is good. But it also causes a wave of newness to overrun me, washing my body from head to toe, taking extra time in my abdomen. I crane to have a better look; yes, it's still there, firm and unbelievably hot and—oh, Katniss, what kind of thoughts are these? The sensation in my abdomen is getting lower as I completely turn to face Peeta again, who's obviously still asleep. Asleep and dreaming of me as my name continuously flows from his wet lips. I can't divert my eyes from his shorts, knowing what is under them, and wondering how it would look free from its undergarment. A familiar feeling is growing between my legs, a heat that I've felt before but never given attention to.

One curious finger touches Peeta's waist, and I freeze, thinking he's going to wake up and find me ... well, what am I actually doing? Watching him sleep? That seems like a euphemism of what I'm doing right now. My finger travels around the edge of his boxers, which is strained due to the inpatient part of his body under it. I can't even seem to think about it, but I can, right? I'm eighteen. I'm a woman; a grown woman. I can think about it, even say it if I want.

Penis. Yeah, penis. That's it; that's Peeta's penis throbbing under his underwear, while he probably dreams about me. I only realize I'm smiling when I lick my lips nervously. I'm flattered at this idea—that Peeta thinks about me when he, when he ... yes, I can say it too: when he has wet dreams or masturbates. I mean, I think he does. Does he? And I, should I? Something calling my own attention between my thighs seems to have its own opinion. The thoughts from before, that I definitely need someone to talk about all this stuff, are more real now.

A deep moan coming from Peeta's throat makes me retrieve both hands, rolling to my side again. I stay motionless, holding my breath. My eyes snap shut as he gasps. I know he's awake when his breathing suddenly calms, and I sense the mattress moving as he sits on the bed.

"Oh." His voice is tired, and I can't help but smile as I imagine him looking down at himself, finding out that part of his dream wasn't just in his mind. I fake a steady rhythm of my breath as I sense his face close to mine, watching if I'm still asleep. He appears convinced as he gets up from the bed, heading for the bathroom. When he closes the door, the small light vanishes from the room, and I'm in complete darkness. I hear the sound of the faucet, the running water and something else I can't place. I'm almost falling asleep again when he returns, my back facing him. He smells like soap when he lies next to me, placing a kiss at my hair before turning to his sleep.

I fall asleep trying not to think what would happen if his dream were ever to come true.

* * *

There was never really an option. I shuffle between the letters trying to find the one I'm looking for, with the phone next to me.

My mother would not be an option even if she were here; we never discussed such matters. One because I was not interested by that time, and two because I honestly don't believe that mothers feel fully comfortable talking about it with their daughters. My mother wouldn't. A man wouldn't understand, and I'd die of embarrassment before bringing it up to Haymitch. So, as I dial the number written on the letter I'm holding, I know I don't actually have a choice. She's the closest person that I can discuss it with, and she can even give me advice. Though I know I will regret some of her advice ...

"District Seven, please," I say to the operator, patiently waiting for the beep that will signalize my call has been transferred to District Seven's communication station. There was a reform in the communication system in Panem. Most of the towers were already built; they just had to connect more lines between the districts, and not just the Capitol. Or at least that was what Haymitch told me. I'm drumming my fingers at the wall next to the phone when another operator answers. "Mason, Johanna." I dictate the number and wait another couple of minutes to the next sequence of beeping.

_"No shit, you called."_

Yes, this is Johanna.

"Nice talking to you too," I say dryly but glad that she can't see my smirk.

_"I thought you were dead or something. Haymitch said you were acting like a vegetable—a rotten vegetable." _Her teasing tone is there, but her voice also seems more sober than the last time I heard from her. I ignore her remark.

"Thank you for your letter. And no, I don't want to kill Paylor." I laugh along with her, remembering her joke in her letter.

We chat for some time, which surprises me. I was never good at small talk. She tells me little about her life: a new home at Seven, some trips to the Capitol, constant doctor appointments. I talk about the woods, my houses at the Victor's Village, how I screwed up my leg running from a wild dog. She laughs so hard at this that I wonder if she would pass out guffawing knowing that I actually fell from a tree. She doesn't ask about Peeta, maybe unsure if I want to talk about it, but I know she's curious.

_"Now seriously, what do you want?" _Her tone suddenly changes after a quiet moment, and I swallow hard, curling my fingers around the phone's thread.

"I, I was thinking—"

_"You're still stuck in Twelve?"_ She cuts me off, and I believe she's sensing my request.

"Yeah."

_"Do you want me to come over? Talk about girly stuff and braid your hair?"_

"Shut up."

_"I'll take that as a 'yes', Mockingjay. I'll call you later—try to set a date." _I think the conversation is over when she continues. _"How about Lover Boy?" _ Johanna probably doesn't remember that this is the way the Careers referred to Peeta in our first Games. Or she does and simply doesn't care. I push the remembrance of Clove's knife on my skin as I answer her.

"He's fine. Didn't try to kill me."

_"That's definitely a progress. Are you two making real babies by now?"_

"Shut up!" This may be the fifth time I tell her that. I'm grateful she can't see my blush.

_"Right. We'll discuss that accompanied by a bottle of whatever you get in this forsaken district of yours. Gotta go or __my __shrink will think I actually care about you." _ The line is dead before I can make any further comments. That's settled: Johanna Mason will be the one to help me with the birds and bees talk.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I'm really excited about exploring Johanna's character in the story. She is a very caricatured persona, not deep enough for sappy drama but full of humor. As you've noticed, I like to write some humors passages in my fics. Please tell me what you think of it.

Special thanks to the betareaders:** EsmePlatt95, paronomastic** and **Project Team Beta**.

Thank you for reading,

Maia


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

_His hands are steady as he explores my breasts, but I know he's nervous as his palms leave sweaty trails on my skin. I moan softly as my nipples harden under the pressure of his thumbs, and he groans back into my neck before we meet in a wild kiss. The small hands that were resting on his lower back run down, cupping his full member. We don't break the kiss as he moans into my mouth under my touch, twitching against my fingers. I sigh as he presses his weight above me, just briefly enough for our bare chests to graze. He pulls his body off me again, guiding his hands from my waist to my thighs, separating them. I let him do it, desperate to feel his fingers completely over me. I release his member to pull him to another kiss, my mouth suddenly needing to be occupied. My teeth close hard on his lips, and he growls a mix of pain and pleasure that makes me want more. My own moan fills the room, joining his as one of his deft hands find its way to my womanhood, discovering the increasing wetness there. I taste blood as I breathlessly call his name, a request for him to go further. _

_ "Katniss," he responds, shivers running up and down my body, a new yet welcome sensation. "Katniss," he says between kisses on my collarbone, and all I can do is nod fervently. _

"Katniss!" The feeling of a sweaty body over mine vanishes as I open my eyes, finding the same glance from my dream, but these eyes now shine with worry instead of arousal. "Katniss, wake up." Peeta uses his hands to clean my sweaty forehead, and one of his arms runs to my back to push me closer to him.

"You were having a nightmare." He pushes me away for a moment to bring the edge of his sheet to my mouth, and I gasp seeing it comes out bloody. "You bit your lips. Are you okay?"

"Yes." My voice is hoarse, and I divert my eyes from Peeta. It was a dream; not real. I just had the most vivid dream of my life, and it had nothing to do with the Capitol or the Games. I dreamed of Peeta and I having—

"Katniss, are you alright? You can talk to me about it." He wraps a hand around my shoulder and all of a sudden I'm so happy I'm a girl, so he can't notice how aroused I am right now. During the past few days our kissing is more frequent, but none of the things we dared to do was close to what my imagination just made me experience. "Katniss, do you want to talk about your dream? Doctor Aurelius said it could help you understand the reason why your subconscious is bringing it up."

I suspect the reason my mind is doing this is because I'm discovering my sexuality and needs in the subject, but I don't want to discuss it now. Principally with the man I just dreamed I was intimately touching.

"So?" he asks as I remain silent. He really looks concerned as he strokes my shoulder. I hope the darkness of the room disguises my expression as my eyes widen, thinking how I'd tell this to Peeta. I can't. So I lie.

"Mutts. Mutts everywhere. Fire, fire too. And dead people." I remember how I woke up in the other night to find Peeta also having a dream about sex. Or at least it looked like it. He sounded relieved not to find me awake, so I hope he understands my lie now. I don't know if he's buying it. His eyes are the only thing I can discern in the dark, but he doesn't push me.

"It's over now. Come here." He makes room for me as we spoon, my right leg lightly extended. I ignore the slippery sensation between my legs as I rest my head on Peeta's chest.

* * *

The doctor from the Capitol is gentle during his brief appointment with me. It's obvious that he isn't pleased to be in District Twelve, though he seems to enjoy my company, paying almost as much attention to me as he does to his blond cowlick. He basically frees me from the cast on my leg, and I'm surprised seeing how normal it looks like, though very pale from the lack of sunlight. I also notice that my normally discrete fluffy hairs over it have grown a little more, but since my prep team is not here, there's no reason to sound an alarm for it.

The exercises the doctor shows me for physiotherapy are fatiguing, but I know they'll help me to be back in the woods in no time. Since I always need someone to assist me while doing those, Peeta is quick to learn the movements I need to pull through. I try my best to ignore my blush as he touches my legs to fold them in the way the doctor is showing. The fact that Peeta is only concentrated in the movement is kind of intriguing. My blush disappears as I notice he isn't even looking up at me, fully concentrated on my knee. I rather think I don't frown as he releases my leg.

Peeta goes back to the train station with the doctor, helping him carry his small suitcase. I keep hopping in the living room, delighted that I don't need the crutches to walk now, just a cane.

By the time he is back I am spread out on the couch, quietly napping. I open my eyes as he picks me up, and I let out a small yawn while resting my head on his shoulders.

"I can walk now, you know?" It isn't a fierce protest as I cuddle myself in his arms, already dreaming about the warmth of his bed. I ignore his smile as he places me on the mattress. "I really can walk." I turn to my side, pulling the covers over my shoulder.

"Never said you couldn't."

I can almost see the grin I'm hearing in his voice.

"I do. With a cane. But I can."

He laughs lightly, kissing my cheek, one arm resting around my waist.

"Can I still carry you if I want?" he asks playfully, stroking my waist.

I use my elbow to poke him.

"Only if my leg is broken."

"Fair enough." He kisses my cheek again, and I just know he is still smiling.

* * *

It's almost evil and definitely mocking.

That's how I'd describe Peeta's smirk right now as he holds my leg down, his tense fingers burying in my thigh. "The doctor said you need to stretch it for an entire minute."

"A minute isn't that long!" I fist my hands in the rug I'm sitting on, pursing my lip to prevent any more groans from escaping. Peeta just pushes my knee even further, making a tiny moan flee from my throat. "I hate you." I mumble the words more to myself, tasting the sweat that is trickling from my temple. He looks up at me, and I feel the urge to slap that cute smiling face.

"See? You didn't die." He finally frees my leg from the pressure, and I instinctively hug my knee, easing the tension. "You know the exercises are important."

"Doesn't make them any less painful." I rest my back on the sofa, sighing deeply.

Our usual place for the physiotherapy sections is the living room floor, over a quilt used as a rug. I don't have the strength to pull myself on the couch. Peeta sits at my side, playing idly with my braid and smiling like he hadn't just tortured me for the last hour.

"Today is a beautiful day; we should enjoy it. Do you want to have lunch outside?"

"You mean a picnic?" My tune is way too childish, and for a moment, I ignore the pain in my knee to look expectantly at Peeta. I feign a frown as he laughs; but I can't help it. I haven't been outside for three weeks, and no matter what Peeta says, the yard doesn't count as "outside".

"Yeah, we can go to the Meadow."

I bite my lips as the glee takes over me, hoping to prevent the giggle forming in my mouth from coming out. He gets up and holds out a hand to help me. "You can use your cane, and I'll be there if you need me."

I'm very proud of myself when I say that I made it to the Victor's Village gate before Peeta had to pick me up. I mumble a few excuses about the physiotherapy as I straddle his back, and he is wise enough not to laugh or contradict me while both of my thighs press him and my cane hovers threateningly above his head. His shoulders are definitely broader than when he got to District Twelve. I wonder if I look healthier too, but if I do, it's not right now, as I'm being carried like a sack of flour. I absently rest a hand around his neck, feeling the contraction of his muscles from the effort, and a lost hand traces abstract circles over his left shoulder. I stop the circles before my mind gets lost in the thought of a certain dream.

The Meadow is ebullient with the need to be held in spring forever. Though the leaves know that the heat of summer will overwhelm them soon enough. The breeze is soft, playing with my rebellious bangs that refuse to be kept in my braid.

I close my eyes to taste it: the flavor of freedom, fresh and alive. It's idyllic. A shrub of late primroses blooms in the corner of my view, and I can't keep my thoughts from diverting to my sister. She was the kind of person who would stop anything just to look at this view and relish in the nature's beauty. In a different time, I'd never notice any of these wonders unless a squirrel was hiding between them. She deserved a better life, more than me at least.

"Cheese buns, apples, tea ... what do you want?" Peeta pulls me out of my reverie.

"She'd be an excellent doctor." I know I said the words out loud when Peeta stops his search for lunch in our basket and looks at me, a sudden display of confusion on his face. It's the first time I've brought up anything related to Prim without running away to hide in a suffocating closet. "She was so good, always searching for the bright side of everything. Even if the person had a deadly wound, she would try to save them."

Peeta remains silent as I switch my glance from the primroses to the ground, picking at the blades of grass near my knee. "I miss her so much." I'm not crying, which surprises me. Peeta is still quiet as he places his arm around my shoulders, and a soft hand on my forehead. He is not going to say anything because there are no right words for this moment, and Peeta hates not having the right thing to say.

The rest of the lunch doesn't have the shade of melancholy from the beginning, and Peeta even manages to make me laugh a few times. On our way back home, I try to walk alone again, and I make to twenty feet this time. Yay. Peeta leaves me at home and goes to the train station to check on our post office box. Mailing was one of the first national services to become available after the rebellion, but we still have a lack of mailmen. Each of the registered residences has a mail box at the post office. He doesn't take long and gets home with three letters for me.

One is from the Capitol Bank, and consists mostly of extracts and bureaucracy correspondence. That's what my mother meant with me being more independent with my finances. I ignore the last letter as I see the second one: it's from Johanna. I open it without ceremony, and Peeta smiles seeing my silly behavior.

"She's coming!" I say as I finish the small letter. "Next week, she's going to spend five days here. She can't stay longer ..." I'm still thrilled with the idea of seeing my old friend again when Peeta picks up the forgotten letter on the floor. He's serious as he hands it to me.

"You should read this. I also got one."

I grab the paper and look at the sender address. Capitol. The new symbol of Panem shines, and with just a look, I know it's an official letter.

"I don't want to read it." I hand it back to Peeta. "Did you read yours?"

"No, I got it today, along with yours." He takes a folded paper from his pocket, and I see the similarities from one to another. "Haymitch probably got one too."

"I really don't want to think about this right now." All the excitement from Johanna's visit disappears from my voice at the thought of an official communication from the Capitol to me. There is just one thing they can be looking for.

"We can't hide from them forever. They'll ask for a public appearance. An interview or even a propo."

"I_ really_ don't want to think about this right now," I repeat, though this time my words combine with my hands as I crush the paper between my fingers. Peeta rests his warm palm over my strained hand, placing a kiss on the white knuckles to pry them open.

"I'll hold onto it for you." He takes the letter from me and folds it with his own, putting both in his back pocket.

At night, sleep doesn't take me. I keep rolling on the bed, images from my last visit to the Capitol flooding my mind. Peeta's breathing is even, and I honestly hope he is resting. When I finally can sleep, awful nightmares are devilishly waiting for me. I wake up with Peeta's firm grip on my waist, preventing me from falling off the bed. He pulls me back up and holds me close, and just then I realize I was screaming.

Peeta holds his arms tighter around me, giving me the stability not to scream anymore. I pull apart just enough to look up at him, meeting his blue eyes in the moonlight. "If they make me go, would you go with me?" I know the question is unfair; he also suffered too much in the hands of the Capitol. But I certainly can't face it alone.

"Yes."

I don't need a romantic declaration of love. This simple "yes" means more to me than any outstanding words. He kisses me softly, and each time I'm getting more comfortable with it. I like the feeling of his lips on mine, the silkiness of his tongue and the warmth of his hands. We fall asleep in each other arms, and when the nightmares attack again, Peeta is there.

* * *

During the week, I decide to prepare my house for my upcoming visitor. Johanna is not fancy, but I want to make her feel comfortable even in my outlying District. For the past weeks, I've been sleeping at Peeta's house, leaving my dark one alone, with just a sometimes curious Buttercup to dwell it. Asking Johanna to sleep at Peeta's might make her feel awkward, so I spend most of the week cleaning up my house. I prepare my mother's old room to receive Johanna, leaving clean sheets for her. I don't know how she is dealing with her hydrophobia, but I leave fresh towels anyway.

Besides the stairs, I'm able to walk everywhere without the cane. Well, if you can call hopping walking. But I'm definitely getting better, and I think that I'll be able to go to the woods with Johanna. After all, she's from Seven. She grew up in the woods, and I hope she'll like to meet mine. Though, I'm not planning cutting any trees. I wonder if she'll bring an ax ...

Since I've been spending part of this week in my own house, Peeta is having more time for himself. At dinner, I always come back to check on his delicious meal, and to sleep by the warmth of his body. Today I'm early, but by the smell, I realize that Peeta has already cooked our meal.

"Peeta?" I call out from the door, heading towards the kitchen. "Peeta?" Nobody receives my smile as I enter the room, the oven still emanating heat from the previous bake. "Peeta!" I call louder this time, but still no answer. Maybe he went to Haymitch's, to bring him some food. Everybody knows Haymitch can't cook. I use the extra time to set the table for two. I also wash some of the dishes Peeta used to prepare our dinner. Half an hour passes, and still no Peeta.

I'm not very good at being stationary, so I decide to go to Peeta's study, where he paints. I see that he's spending more time there, since I'm out most of the day. There are paintings all over the floor, and one unfinished on his easel. It's the Meadow, exactly the way it looked like when we went to the picnic. It's beautiful ... but it reminds me of Prim. I leave the room, noticing some ink drops on the floor.

Normally the drops are just in the study, but Peeta managed to stain the hall too. I search for a wet cloth and start to mop the floor, following the drops. I frown, seeing he didn't just soil the hall, but the drops make a path to another room. I cock my head to the side as I follow and mop the colored paint, and I wonder if Peeta is painting in a different room too. When I try to open the door, it's locked. Weird. I can see that the stains continue inside the bedroom, but I can't open the door. I take the cloth and squeegee back to the storeroom before I start to search for the key. Why does Peeta have a locked room? Certainly it's not to keep me out. He doesn't hide anything from me ... right?

I bite my lower lip as I go up to his—or should I say our?—room. I search for the key in his drawers, but I find nothing apart from underwear and socks. The wardrobe is mostly mine now, so he wouldn't hide anything there—if he's hiding anything at all. I go back to the living room, but as I look around, I decide there's no place to hide anything there. The kitchen? No, probably not. That leaves ... the study! I rush to the room, or try to, considering my healing leg, and start to search the shelves there. I mostly find his art materials, brushes, inks, paints, canvas and one small wooden box that is between two blank canvas. Bingo.

The box is not locked, and I find two sets of keys inside. I grab them and bolt to the "mysterious bedroom" door, my curiosity getting the best of me. The first key doesn't fit, but the other one opens the door easily. I push it open, revealing a dark bedroom. As I turn on the lights, I see that there's an easel in the middle of the room, and behind it is the bed, neatly tidy like nobody has slept in it for months. I'm almost disappointed when I see that there's a sheet covering the canvas, and the ink trail on the floor goes right to it. I take small steps in that direction, until I'm facing the covered painting. I know I have a frown on my face as I take off the cotton cloth blocking my view.

Wow.

My eyes widen and let my chin fall open, gasping in total disbelief. _Oh you, Peeta_.

On the canvas, skillfully painted, there's the bed I'm facing now, as if he used it as a model. But that's not just it. On it, wearing an expression of pure lust that I'm absolutely sure I've never made before, there's the naked portrait of myself. I'm lying on the bed, propping myself up on one elbow, one hand playfully touching the end of my half done braid, as if someone had started to undo it but didn't finish the job. My legs are not wide apart in a position that would make me run away from the bedroom, but they are not all "lady-style" either, showing a bit of my pubic hair.

But what primarily shocks me is not the fact that it is a portrait of myself in this seductive way; it is the accuracy of it. My skin is not the soft silk Peeta watched for so many years as we were growing up. It is painted as it really is, the stitched uneven path of natural and laboratory-made skin. It almost matches with the lines of my real scars. Has Peeta been watching me? So closely to engrave in his mind these minimal details?

The skin is not the only precise thing about me. The painting also shows my breasts as they really are. I mean, the size. I don't have big boobs, everybody knows that. The Capitol even tried to surgically modify me. Coloring the canvas, my chest is authentically proportional, along with my hips, not making extreme curves along my thin waist. Does Peeta find this Katniss attractive? Does he think I'm beautiful like this? And the eyes ... my gray glance is dark, shining with what I can only call as desire. Is this how Peeta imagines me? Is this the Katniss from his dreams? I touch the paint lightly, afraid that I'll smudge it. Could I be this Katniss? I keep looking at the painting, squinting my eyes. Maybe I should shave, then I'd be more like this Katniss.

I locked the room and placed the key in its secret place before Peeta comes back. I'm almost sure I'm not blushing anymore when he opens his front door, with an innocent smile that makes me smirk. Yeah, _innocent_. We eat lunch quietly, enjoying the soup Peeta made with fresh ingredients from the market.

While we lie on the bed, sharing goodnight kisses, I try not to think about how an equivalent portrait of Peeta would look like. Without noticing, I deepen the kiss, and Peeta welcomes my tongue into his mouth. He seems a little anxious, but I feel him relaxing as he matches my openmouthed kisses. My hand is explorative as I rest it on his chest—which is bare tonight, due the thickness of our blanket. I thread and unthread my fingers through the dusting of light blonde hair, and a shy hand finds a place on my waist. My own hands find their way down to his navel, shaping his abdomen. His muscles stiffen at my touch; he probably wasn't expecting that. My hands travel up to his shoulders, and we never break the kiss. We are lying side by side, but he shifts his position, and I feel the icy touch of his prosthetic leg sneaking between my thighs. He presses against my crotch, and I let out a small moan, which surprises us both. I open my eyes, panting, and he looks down at me, also gasping for air.

"I'm sorry," he says quickly, rolling back to his side. "I didn't, I didn't mean to, I mean ..." It's so funny when Peeta gets speechless.

"It's okay." I bite my lower lip as he turns to me again.

"We can go slow. It's enough for today." He smiles at me and I hug him close.

"'Kay," I mumble against his neck.

I turn over to press my back against him, while he cocoons me with his broad chest. As I feel something poking my lower back, I can't help but remember the painting. But now I picture it with Peeta lying at my side, naked and with his eyes also darkened with desire. I'd happily get lost in the image.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I hope that not all of you are like "Oh, God, just do it already!". There's a reason why _it _didn't happen ... I truly think they can't rush things; even though both Katniss and Peeta are exploding from their hormones and desires, they need to pass through a "step-by-step" relation in the physical aspect before jumping to sex. I don't understand fics that make them like monkey sex machines right in the first chapter. I mean, a normal person don't do it. "Oh, I just learned what a penis is, now I'm going to have sex", it's not how it works, so that is why I'm being careful. But don't worry, they will come to it, eventually.

Next chapter, Johanna is here! Thank you for reading, don't forget to review!

Special thanks to the betareaders: **EsmePlatt95, paronomastic** and **Project Team Beta**.

Maia


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

"So it is true." Johanna gives a skeptical look at my limping leg as I approach the train, her smirk a mix of mocking and pity. Though I'm sure the first one is predominant. She shakes her head as her auburn pixie hair blows in the soft breeze of the late afternoon. Her train is delayed almost three hours. It was not very fun for me and Peeta as we stood in the station waiting for her and trying not to be intimidated by the Peacekeepers around us. Old habits die hard. Haymitch had given up waiting for Johanna in the first half hour of delay, having to attend an absolutely important meeting with a bottle of liquor.

"It is true that you fell running from some wild dog. Hmm. Go figure." The pity disappears completely from her features as she pulls me into an uncharacteristic hug.

"Nice to see you again, too." I smirk back when we pull apart, seeing that she has gained weight from the last time I saw her.

"It's always nice to go visit a friend who is also a menace of the nation." She adjusts her small backpack on her shoulder before turning for Peeta. "And you, Peeta? Better than the last time I saw you?"

"Definitely. Welcome to District Twelve, Johanna." He also briefly hugs her.

"Yeah, yeah. Where is your Village?"

My eyebrows rise in surprise, but then I remember that every district has a Victor's Village. Johanna probably lived in one for a good part of her life.

"C'mon, it's not far." Peeta takes my hand before we head to the Village, and this small gesture doesn't go unnoticed by Johanna's curious brown eyes.

It isn't far, but we take more time to reach the house, since Peeta insists that I don't exert myself while walking. I try to protest, but somehow Johanna's look makes me remain quiet. Dinner is cold due to the delay, and Haymitch even manages to show up. He and Johanna exchange a few jokes and small talk, and she finds out where they sell his famous liquor in the district. Guess who will want to take a trip to town tomorrow?

After the dinner, Haymitch disappears when Peeta suggests that the boys wash the dishes. I take Johanna to my house to show her the room I've prepared for her visit. As soon as my front door closes, she drops her backpack on my couch and turns to me with a grin that hadn't appeared on her face yet.

"So, Mockingjay, what is so important for you to call me?"

"Well, I, I ... I really wanted to see you." That's not entirely false. I really miss friends here in Twelve. But the thin, raised eyebrow that she shoots me shows that she's not convinced. "And ..." I exhale loudly. "I need someone to talk to."

"About ...?" Her tone is almost casual, not fitting with the grin she's still wearing.

"About ... about stuff and, and things. Yeah, things." I should have rehearsed that.

"Look, as much fun as it is to watch you struggling with the simple subject of sex, I'm really starting to feel sorry for you." She's still grinning while she says this, which makes me doubt her words. The flow of remarks I'm about to throw at her dies in my throat at her next question. "Are you two having troubles in bed?"

One cough attack is her answer. She squints her eyes at me, studying my face as I gasp for air, and I rethink if all of this is a good idea.

"No way that you're not screwing him. He practically drools while looking at you."

I'm still shocked with her remark as she continues. "I mean, if there is a reason you want to talk to me, it has to be about what is going on between you two. And whatever is going on, it definitely involves a dick."

I try to reply but something like a snort comes out. She slumps easily on my couch, taking off her boots with one hand before tossing them back at the door's direction. "You also broke your tongue along with your leg? C'mon, Katniss, we're both adults here. Sit down." She motions to the couch next to the one she's currently sitting. As I sit down, my thoughts seem to be working again.

"We are not having sex," I say shyly, even though I know a poisoned remark is going to hit me. To my own surprise, Johanna stays quiet and adjusts herself on her sofa to face me. She waves her hand as a signal for me to go on. "I mean, we are not doing anything, really. We sleep together, but it's just sleep. We kiss. But ..."

"You both want to."

"Yeah, I mean, I think so." I try to sound confident, but my blush probably gives me away.

"Hmm." She seems thoughtful for a moment. "Do _you_ want to?"

I think my cheeks really can't be even more red as she asks me.

"I—I do." Remembering my dreams, I feel that I want to experience all of that.

"And of course Peeta does—I can answer that for you." Johanna rolls her eyes. "Do you think of him while you touch yourself?"

And there is the cough attack again. And I was wrong—my cheeks could get more red. Johanna brings her hand to her face and murmurs something I think I'm happy I don't understand.

"I totally forgot I was talking to Miss Chastity here." She takes a deep breath and raises a finger to stop me from saying anything else. "I know you are not innocent in some ways, like the killing people kind of thing, but I'm going to assume you are totally dumb on the subject of sex, right?"

I hate myself for nodding.

"Okay, first things first." Johanna cracks her neck before locking her umber glance with my curious gray orbs. "What do you actually know about sex?"

* * *

It would have been easier if she didn't laugh at almost all of my replies. After my brief and rehearsed explanation of my apparently shallow knowledge about sex, Johanna starts to ask me a few questions, basically just to humiliate me. She also manages to share some information about the male anatomy that I think is a bit interesting. But I have to admit that, sometimes, under the sarcasm, she seems concerned about me almost like a protective figure. I wonder how I would react to having this conversation with Prim ... she'd probably know more than I do.

"Katniss," her words bring me back to reality "besides all these things about the men's body, you need to know more about yourself. I suppose Peeta is as ignorant as you in the matter of experience."

I play with the end of my braid—which I did and undid at least ten times in the last hour. "I don't know. We never talked about it." I meet her eyes again.

"Maybe you should. But if the boy is taking advice from Haymitch, he's light-years ahead of you. And not in the good way."

I wonder what she means by that.

"How old are you again?" she asks.

"Eighteen." Finally an easy question for me today.

"By your age, I was a Victor for a couple of years. I already knew more men that I intended to." Her eyes darken for a moment, and I'm unable to discern her pupils. I remember Finnick's interview and decide not to ask anything about her comment. Two years is more than enough for the Capitol to ruin someone. "But _you_ are the subject now."

I'm glad to see that her mocking tone is back, shoving any thoughts of the Games aside. "So you don't think of him while touching yourself?"

Again this question, damn you, Johanna. I thought my first cough attack was your answer.

"I don't, I mean, I do think of him, but I never—"

"Katniss, your purity is kinda gross," she chimes in, holding her hands up and grimacing.

I wonder how something pure can be gross. Only for Johanna. I can't blush any more because I believe that red is the natural state of my cheeks since we started this conversation.

"It's not about masturbation, Katniss. It's about learning how to deal with your body. Peeta doesn't have any experience. He'll need you to show him what makes you feel good. And vice-versa, but I also think he's way ahead of you in this subject too." She's probably right, and if the mysterious thing poking me sometimes in my sleep is any clue ... "You know I love to talk about teenage love," she says sarcastically, getting up from her spot on the sofa. "But the trip from up in the North is really tiring. I believe I'm going to sleep in this house?"

"Last room on the right, down the hall." I also get up, stretching my back.

"Don't you dare wake me up early tomorrow. But I do want to go to town," she says before winking at me, heading for the hall. "We can discuss more about your sexual frustrations then."

I purse my lips not to shout back a remark, and also to disguise the small smile forming on them.

"Have a wonderful night sleeping with Lover Boy." Her last sentence is muffled by the sound of a closing door, but I'm almost sure I heard a laugh too.

I hope I'm not blushing as I enter Peeta's house, a dark living room welcoming me. I don't know exactly how long Johanna and I stood in my house having that conversation, but it appears that it was enough for Peeta to give up on waiting for me. He's probably asleep by now. I go quietly to the bedroom, using my skill as a silent hunter to compensate for my recovering leg. The light is off, but as I open the door and a weak light enters, I notice that the bed is empty. Peeta is not in the kitchen, not in the living room, not in the bathroom— I also see the lights off there. Hmm.

I brush my teeth and change into a silky nightgown. I normally use one of Peeta's oversized shirts to sleep, but lately I realized that he likes when I use girly stuff. Not just the pajamas, but anything. I remember the way he looked at me when I was about to give an interview at the Capitol, shining in a fluffy garment that I'd never use in a different occasion. Or the way he gazed at me when I wore the wedding dress, the one of our supposed marriage. Better not to think about that right now.

My eyelids are getting heavier, and I'm half asleep when the idea hits me. Where is Peeta? Maybe he passed out somewhere having an episode! I get up in a start, my heart already pounding. Why am I so selfish? If our situation was reversed, Peeta wouldn't simply go to sleep without knowing where I am. He already proved this when I dislocated my knee. My bare feet graze the wooden stair as I make my way to the hall, searching for any sign of where Peeta can be. The study door is open, but there is nobody there. I'm already heading to the front door when a discreet light calls my attention. I turn my head to the right and see that the doorframe from one of the rooms is illuminated, showing that the light is on inside. Peeta's name is already in my mouth before I suddenly freeze. I know this room.

This is _that_ room, the one that was locked, the one that has a portrait of ... me. My naked, sexy version that Peeta created from the depths of his imagination, and maybe the not so deep figure of my body sleeping next to his for weeks. He's there now, probably painting. The door was locked, so I'm not supposed to go in, I guess. But my feet already guided me to the door, and a curious finger is brushing the doorknob, the cool metal making me shiver lightly. My hand is already closed around the shiny object when I hear it, stopping my actions right away.

First, it sounds like he is indeed painting, like the mixing of different inks together. A very fierce and excited mix of paintings. Maybe he is trying for a new color? The unexpected sensation in my lower abdomen tells me that maybe Johanna is right, I am Miss Chastity for thinking this. Goosebumps start in my tiptoes and run their way up to my nape as I think of the other possibility of this sound. It is followed by Peeta's voice, hoarse and husky in soft moans filling the room.

_"... but I also think he's way ahead of you in this subject too." _Johanna voice echoes in my head as my own name also makes an appearance in Peeta's monologue. I don't know what to do, what am I suppose to do? Run away back to the room? But what if he hears me? Would he be embarrassed? Would I? Who is sneaking on whom here? As I lean my ear to the door to better listen what is going on in the room, I have a suspicion. My hand is still motionless on the doorknob, and I won't dare move, afraid I will call more attention than I intend. I had never seen a man doing this, is this how it's suppose to sound? I wonder how a woman does it… a throbbing sensation increasing in the middle of my thighs may be the answer.

As Peeta's breathing starts to increase, I press both my legs together, suddenly needing to feel any kind of pressure down there. I ... I think I want to enter the room. To see, to watch, to participate. Is this, is this what Johanna means by talking more to Peeta? Maybe ask him if we should do it together. Can we do it together? Oh my, I need to write down all my questions to Johanna. She'd know what to do.

A surprised and repressed moan escapes from beyond the door, and I can just imagine Peeta's full red lips twitching as he does it. The painting sound subdues and he breathes heavily. All my courage to open the door disappears as I hear his heavy steps heading for where I am, behind the door, and in a second I'm rushing for the stairs, hopping to the room and losing myself between the sheets, covering my head and hoping Peeta won't notice that I'm awake.

Fifteen minutes later, I hear his steps heading up the stairs, and he opens the door. I shut my eyes tightly, the blanket still covering my face. He enters the room and closes the door, darkness taking over again. I feel his body weight on the bed and his warm hand on my shoulder.

"Katniss?" he asks softly, and I can't sense any kind of embarrassment in his voice. I don't answer. "Katniss, are you awake?" His whisper is tender against my ear through the cotton sheets, and I have to use all my will power not to turn and hug his chest firmly. He takes a deep breath and rolls to his side, finally ignoring me as he dives into his sleep.

I can't sleep, how could I? The sounds, the images my own naughty imagination is creating… they are making my mind run a hundred miles an hour; dreaming, wanting, and never satisfying. I roll and roll on the bed, secretly envying Peeta's chest's deep rise and fall, showing he is profoundly asleep. The conversation with Johanna keeps replaying in my head, and I bite my lips every time I think of Peeta's mouth opening to moan my name in the heated room. Also, the sensation pulsing in my lower abdomen has descended a few inches and it's throbbing right in my core. I feel the wetness increasing there at every thought, every short breath, every graze that my thighs manage to do when I roll on the bed. I want it to stop, but at the same time I want it to grow.

_"Do you think of him while you touch yourself?" _This is all Johanna's fault! If it wasn't for her ideas and suggestions, I'd be just like Peeta now, sleeping like a baby. Just like—wait a minute. Peeta indeed is sleeping like an angel, a gorgeous angel that would look extremely hot in—that's it! I force myself to concentrate my thoughts in my objective: to sleep. Peeta masturbated and is sleeping well. Maybe it helps. Maybe it can release the increasing pressure in my belly, the dancing dragons in my stomach, quench the fire in me.

I bite my cheek as I sit on the bed. Peeta doesn't seem to notice as I get up, his body lazily stretching to occupy the now empty side of the bed. I'm still chewing my cheek nervously as I open the door, treading in the dark hallway to reach the stairs. The night is at its peak, just the moonlight guiding me downstairs as I use the handrail to support my body. The house is eerily quiet, and I open the now unlocked door to enter the room I was eavesdropping about an hour ago. As I suspected, the place is exactly like I found it a few days before: the bed meticulously tidy and the easel covered by a sheet. A discrete tissue box on the nightstand is the difference from the last time I saw the room. I take a deep breath, closing the door behind me, turning on the small lampshade beside the tissues.

I lie on the bed, feeling the smoothness of the cotton, passing my fingers over the detailed embroidered edge and wondering about Peeta's hands as he was on this bed moments ago. I lick my lips as I smell his scent, his sweat still hovering in the air, thinking of how he whispered my name. How his muscles must have tensed under his own strokes, his golden locks glued to his dewy forehead, his lips red and wet. My hand hovering over my underwear surprises me—my body is helping me after all.

I swallow hard as I let my hand explore the edges of my panties, giving myself shivers as the pads of my gnawed fingers make their way above my center. My teeth close on my lower lip as I feel the wetness through the thin cloth. Unwittingly, I shut my eyes when I reach a specific cluster of nerves that is the main reason for my short breaths right now. The throbbing point relishes under my touch, and all I want now is to obey its request. Suddenly the panties are a thick barrier, and I take them off quickly, spreading my thighs to give better access to my exploratory hand. A tiny moan escapes me as I reach for the spot again, the feeling overwhelming me, making me toss my head into the pillow. It's a different kind of newness to me, one that is not shadowed with any sign of dangers. The sensation of my own fingers making lazy circles over me is amazing, and my middle finger ventures over my folds, the wetness ever increasing.

My silky blue nightgown is damp due to the sweat that is starting to cover my entire body, and I shift on the bed to be on my knees, one hand firmly on the mattress to help me support my weight, and the other lost in its movements over my core. Who cares about sleep now; I want to do this with any excuse. I don't realize I'm increasing the speed until my forearm starts to tingle, but I can't care less right now. My jaw is tensed as a cloud of blissful haziness forms in my mind, and just the want of Peeta's hands doing what I am ministering now is what I can discern without losing focus. I bury my head in the pillow to suppress a loud moan forming in my throat, the heat in my belly increasing in a way that I'm sure is going to drown me. I start my own monologue consisting of Peeta's name, craving for him to be the one between my legs, craving for his bigger hand to slide over my clit, making larger arcs as I approach what I'm blindly following.

I'm not aware of my hand anymore as the flame reaches a peak, my abdomen tensing while I bow my back and shut my legs in a pleased cry. A wave of fullness and satisfaction explodes inside of me, traveling its way to all my limbs and back to the center again. I'm not able to suppress the deep groan that flees my mouth, collapsing on the bed with one hand still between my thighs. The throbbing sensation starts to decrease, and my heartbeat ebbs. I know I'm smiling as I shift on the bed, not having the strength to get up.

Peeta's smiling face is what fills my mind as I pull the sheets to cover my half naked body, welcoming sleep's embrace.

* * *

"Morning."

I blink lazily as a kiss touches my temple, the warmth making me smile.

"Mornin' ..." I mumble back as I fail to cover a yawn. Peeta's wide smile greets me as I fully open my eyes, the smell in the room showing that he has already started to bake.

"Sleep well?" He bites his lips almost as if repressing a smirk, and I frown at him.

"What ..." I widen my eyes at the sudden realization. I'm still in the other bedroom! I fell asleep and forgot to go back to Peeta's room! I sigh and pull the covers up to my face to cover the certain blush that is taking over my heating cheeks. Peeta laughs at my childish action. When I turn to face the wall he clears his throat.

"I'm sorry about the painting," he admits softly. Under the blanket I reopen my eyes, wondering how much he knows about what happened here. I gingerly push down the cover, seeing that the naked half of my body is still covered. Peeta wears a shy smile as I turn to him again.

"You don't need to be sorry about it." The last word sounds like a squeak, and I cough a little to warm my sleepy throat. "I liked it."

"Really?" His smile grows as he caresses my chin. "I thought that if you discovered it, you'd freak out."

I kind of did, but he doesn't need to know that.

"It's beautiful. I mean, it's a beautiful painting, not that I'm beautiful ..." I'm stuttering as he leans down to shut me up with a gentle kiss. "It's real." I finally say as he pulls apart.

"That's why it's beautiful." He tucks the untangled hairs on my forehead behind my ears.

I know he doesn't know that I'm half naked when he gets up and offers a hand to help me get off the bed. I really hope he won't notice the discarded panties under it. I need a backup plan or I'll die of embarrassment.

"What do you do in this room?" I feel the question is the perfect one when he suddenly blushes, forming a red shade from his collarbone to his temples.

"I normally, hmm, normally paint." The hand that he was holding out for me goes to his hair, nervously weaving through it. He takes a deep breath before sitting on the edge of the bed again. "But sometimes I, I think of you."

Okay, this is not part of my plan.

"Katniss, we agreed to take things slow. And I'm okay with that, it's just that ..." He looks up to the ceiling and blows a golden bang of his hair, offering me a better view of his heated neck. "I have some needs, some things, that ..."

The truth is that he's amazingly cute when he doesn't know what to say.

"It's okay." I reach for his hand then meet his eyes. "Thank you for respecting me, even though it's hard for you."

When his cheeks that were red turn to a shade of burgundy, I realize my poor choice of words. He doesn't give me a chance to feel ashamed as he gets up again, laughing. I join him in his laugher.

"Yeah, pretty hard." He walks to the door. "C'mon, I made breakfast."

"I'll be there in a minute."

He winks at me before disappearing from the doorframe, and I sigh in relief that I'm alone in the room. I get up quickly and wrap the blanked around my waist, looking at the floor to search for my panties. I can't find them, and if I don't go to the kitchen soon Peeta will be back in the room. Still encased in just my light blue nightgown and a white blanket, I take a tentative look at the hallway, and, seeing it's free, I rush for the stairs, hoping to reach the bedroom before Peeta catches me.

The loud laughter coming from the living room makes me stop halfway up the steps, and I curse myself under my breath as she speaks.

"Hey you, Mockingjay. Nice outfit."

I don't even need to say that I'm blushing when I turn around, facing a smirking Johanna and an agape Peeta. He is obviously confused and wondering why I am using his sheets to cover my body. Johanna's grin couldn't be larger as she crosses the room, stopping at the bottom of the stairs before entering the kitchen. "I wonder if you could take off these covers."

I give her my most deadly glance as I clench my jaw while answering.

"Better not to."

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Her voice already comes from inside the kitchen, leaving just the sheet-dressed me and the still shocked Peeta behind.

"Katniss, what—"

"It's hard, Peeta." I can't face him as I continue to climb the stairs. "Pretty hard."

I know he is smiling as I close the bedroom's door behind me.

* * *

**Author's Note: **You're laughing, right? Ha, ;D

This ended up being just a fluffy chapter. I promise more things about the plot for the next one!

The reference to "up in the North" for District Seven is that I imagined it in the Coniferous Forests in Canada. Lumber and Paper. Anyway, it is just a guess.

Special thanks to the betareaders: **EsmePlatt95** and **Project Team Beta**.

Don't forget to submit your opinion.

Have a great day!

Maia


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

"So ... interesting night, hmm?"

I really thought that maybe she was going to leave me alone, since she didn't say a word as I made a reappearance in the living room—after a cool shower and wearing proper clothes. We had an uneventful breakfast, with the exception of Peeta's deep glance locking with mine a few times; his usually light blue was covered by a shade of dark, and I know he'll want to talk to me later. Part of me is looking forward to that conversation. Johanna remained silent as we headed for town, but here she is being Johanna again.

"You could say so." I kick a small rock that is in my way, not deviating my look from the road.

"Yeah, since you were half-naked when I entered the house."

"It's not what you're thinking."

"You don't even know what I'm thinking." When I meet her eyes, she's smiling, her always present smirk making a shy appearance. "I'm thinking that, maybe, you are a step ahead in making things happen with Blondie."

"Please don't call him that." I feign a frown, but can't disguise my amusement.

"Did you two ..."

"No, and I don't want to talk about it."

"Hmm. I thought the reason why you called me was to discuss porn." She rests one finger on her temple, as if honestly in doubt.

"Johanna!" I censor her by grabbing her wrist, seeing that a friendly lady that is passing by us had stopped smiling when she heard Johanna's comment. She recognizes our faces and blushes before crossing to the other side of the dirt road.

"What? Like she's a virgin."

"JOHANNA!"

She just laughs at my outburst, and I am thankful that the lady didn't hear us. Or if she did, she thought it was better not to scowl at two victors.

"That's what's wrong with you, Katniss. You can't hear the word sex without blushing."

"Could you please wait for us to come back to my house to talk about this?" I say between gritted teeth, doing my best not to scare a beautiful family passing by us. The smiling little boy seems so innocent that I think it's an insult someone like Johanna is standing so close to him. I nod in response to their sympathetic greeting, hoping Johanna won't shatter my fragile image in the District. Thankfully, she ignores the family as easily as she'd ignore an emaciated dead dog.

"Do you have a candy store in your market?"

"It's been a while since I last visit it, but Peeta once managed to find a chocolate bar."

Johanna's eyes shine with something that I'd risk calling glee.

I really don't know how this will end up, but we get back to Peeta's house with a bottle of white liquor, two chocolate bars, a bundle of strawberries, and I want to kill Johanna for trying to bargain with Greasy Sae for some fresh cheese. Since we woke up late, it's almost lunch time when we get back to the Village. Peeta's whistling welcomes us as we enter the kitchen, along with a delicious smell from the oven.

"Hey," he greets us, his too long hair falling into his face, his back arched as he leans over the oven. "I made meatloaf. What've got there?" He points to the bag Johanna has just placed on the table.

"That's something for later," she says before re-collecting the bag. "Actually, I'll take this to your house, Katniss. See you two in a minute." She smirks at us before heading to the front door, and I'm about to turn for Peeta when she shouts from the living room. "Don't forget we're going to eat on this table—don't do anything on it!"

I can feel my cheeks heating while her laugher subdues in the distance, and I try to find something to keep occupied, turning for the sink to gather the plates. I'm setting the table when I hear him chuckling.

"What?" I want to sound more serious, but my smile is already plastered on my face.

"She's just messing with you." His touch is kind, but I feel something different in it. It's like his hand is warmer somehow. I place the two glasses I'm holding on the table before I turn for his embrace, welcoming his arms around me. "How was the trip to town?"

"Embarrassing," I say shyly, turning my head up to him. His eyes have the same deep gleam from the morning, devouring me, scanning each part of my—

The kiss is abrupt, deviating my course of thoughts, turning my memories to the evasive trail of what happened yesterday. The room, the touches, the imagination; I find myself responding eagerly to his kiss, opening my mouth even before his tongue requested it. With both my legs working, it's easier this time for Peeta to lift me up on the table, mimicking our gestures from a certain afternoon that keeps replaying in my mind at night. His apron glues to my body along with his weight, the pressure he's making forcing me to lean over the table, my legs sneaking around his hips to cross behind his lower back. I lie with a discrete thud and Peeta's puff, finally pulling our lips apart. I try to laugh, but his glance, still lost in my gray eyes, suddenly doesn't look funny.

"Katniss, I need to know." He sounds breathless, the smell of meatloaf and sweat filling my nose. "Do you—"

I never hated Haymitch's laughter so much, principally because it makes the pressure over my crotch disappear as Peeta pulls back, stuttering his words as he also helps me to get up. I don't even try to disguise my blush when Haymitch makes his entrance, followed by the also laughing Johanna. Peeta shoots one last glance in my direction and turns to the oven; I notice how he takes off the upper part of his apron and lets it fall over his leg, covering a certain volume in his pants. This doesn't help with my blush.

"Nice. We've got meatloaf," Haymitch says, unceremoniously sitting on a chair by the table. "Who set this table?" he asks confusingly, seeing the now completely disarranged set of plates and glasses—thanks to my indiscrete butt over them less than a minute ago.

"I asked one thing ..." Johanna murmurs while looking for an extra plate on a shelf, since I didn't know my mentor would have the extreme pleasure of joining us.

Peeta clears his throat as he places the steaming pot on the table, and I realize I'm actually hungry. The food is a good distraction from the pulsating sensation between my thighs.

After lunch, Peeta and Johanna stay in his house to wash the dishes as I walk Haymitch home—he seems to need a little extra help finding it. I make sure he is resting on his couch before I head back to Peeta's, ignoring the noxious smell permeating my mentor's house. I hear the sound of Johanna's laugh even before I enter the kitchen, finding the outgoing woman and a completely flushed Peeta inside, apparently just drying the plates. Peeta notices my raised eyebrow silently questioning him, but doesn't say anything, and Johanna laughs even harder. Honestly, I don't want to know.

Peeta insists that he wants to spend the afternoon painting, encouraging me to stay with Johanna. She casually reminds me about the chocolate bar at my house, and that's more than enough to convince me.

We sit in my living room; a melted chocolate bar in one bowl, another with fresh strawberries and the intoxicating white liquor bottle between us. We're spread out on the quilt I used to do my physiotherapy sessions on. Johanna places two cups by the bottle.

"No," I say, firmly pushing the cup away from me. "I'm just into the chocolate."

"C'mon, just a sip," she says waggishly, popping some fruit into her mouth. "It will be easier for us to discuss a few things if you are at least a bit drunk."

My heart skips a beat. What does she mean? She probably notices my confused glance, smirking and taking the first swig from her glass. "We can play a game."

"What—what kind of game?" I try not to sound curious or anxious, probably failing. I play with my braid and avoid her glance while her smirk widens.

"Simple." She sits up, her previous posture being lying on the quilt, her back resting on the couch. "I ask you a question. You can choose: answer me, or, if you don't want to answer, you'll have to drink. And then you ask me a question ..." She waves her hand in the air as a gesture of continuity. It is my time to smirk.

"You're just trying to get me drunk." I pinch a strawberry between my index finger and thumb, dipping it into the chocolate bowl before biting it. "I'm not that stupid," I say with my mouth full.

"Okay. No advice then." She grimaces as she takes another sip, but it soon melts into a pleased smile. "Katniss, I'm trying to do you a favor. You always act like there's a stick up your—"

"Johanna!" I blush at her words, but wonder if I'm always that annoying.

"Better yet, you act like you've never had anything up your—"

"Okay, I'll play it!" I also sit up to meet her eyes, challenge shining in my glance. "Shoot."

"Whoa, suddenly such a bold girl."

I swallow the lump I didn't know was forming in my throat. My curiosity is giving space to regret as she mischievously bites another strawberry.

"How big is sweet Peeta?"

It takes a full second for me to realize what she is really asking. She muffles a laugh with another fruit as my eyebrow almost touches my hairline, and I bite my lower lip.

"I ... I don't ..." I, honestly, don't know. I try to remember the nights when Peeta—probably accidentally—rubbed his groin against me, but I don't know if I can judge that. I know women talk about the length, but I don't know how to compare it. "I think—"

"Do you touch it?" One of her eyebrows raises, and she licks her lips. She is _thinking_ about it!

"That's a second question." I try to regain my composure, ignoring her teasing. "I really don't know."

"An honest answer —fair enough. Now hit me."

What can I ask her? I can't think about anything that will embarrass her as much as she is doing to me. Do all the questions have to be sexually related? Hers probably will.

"Were you ..." I roll my eyes, encouraging myself to go on. "Were you a virgin before your Games?"

"I was fifteen, of course not." She waves her hand, as if she had just said the most obvious fact. I remember when I was fifteen; even though it's barely three years ago, it feels like a different lifetime. A simpler life.

"My turn." Her words bring me back to the game. No matter what she'll ask, I'll just answer and won't drink anything. I can do that, there's nothing she can inquire that I won't—

"How was your wet dream about Peeta?"

Whoa, wait? How does she know about my dreams?

"I knew it." She laughs breathily, and I know my blush betrayed me. "Now answer the question."

"What? No!" I almost squeak in response, not wanting to even imagine how to tell Johanna about my dreams about Peeta. It would be a lot easier to tell her about my Capitol nightmares.

"There is a specific rule for that, Katniss." Her eyes, her smile ... she planned this. Of course she did. "C'mon, drink it up."

"But ..."

"I can try to imagine."

I cock my head and frown, first not understanding what she means. But then she starts talking. "I can easily picture Peeta being a more aggressive guy, maybe in a primitive way, getting you from behind and—"

"I'll drink it!" Hearing anything else that can get out of Johanna's mouth is going to pervert my brain in an unfixable way. She gets the forgotten cup and fills half of it.

"Go ahead." She hands me the glass, and I grimace as I smell the milky liquor in it.

I curl my toes as I take the first gulp.

* * *

After the first cup, it got easier. Some questions I answered, some I ... didn't! And I still don't know why my living room is spinning every time I toss my head back to laugh. Laugh at anything, actually. Johanna seems to be enjoying the game too, and, after my third question, I finally found out the ones she wouldn't answer. She would drink for any question about her family. At first I thought I was being rude, but when she asked if my mouth was big enough to perform some kinds of ... actions ... I decided I didn't care and made her drink half of the bottle. Now it is empty, which means ...

"Can you sing?" Johanna's lips and fingernails are covered in chocolate, and I have a suspicion that so is part of my braid.

"What do you want me to si—sing?" I hiccup at the last word.

"Anythin'." She is lying on the couch, her head above mine as I am spread on the bare floor. I don't know what happened to the quilt. I try to sit up, but feel like I'm on a carousel when my head gets in the vertical position. I roll to my side. When I open my mouth to sing, I drool on the floor while licking my lips. My mouth tastes like liquor-flavored strawberries. Good.

I manage two slurred verses before I hiccup again.

"You know," Johanna says from the couch. "For someone totally wasted, you can sing pretty well." Her words are slurred; I wonder if mine are too. "You should apply for Plutarch's singing show when we get to the Capitol."

My eyes, that I didn't realize were closed, open widely, a moment of sobriety rushing though my veins.

"What did you just say?" I push my weight up from the floor, craning my neck to look at Johanna, who apparently also had just opened her eyes. "Capitol?" The haze in her amber eyes is showing doubt behind the drunkenness.

"Oh, yeah." She sits up on the couch, shaking her head slightly, shutting her eyes for a moment before speaking again. "The rebellion celebration. They said all victors would be present. You didn't get the invitation?"

The letter. The shiny, official-looking letter I got from the Capitol. I start to hyperventilate and feel the acid climbing up the back of my throat, though I don't know if it's because of the alcohol. I try to take a deep breath, and Johanna gives me a skeptical look. "Of course you knew. I talked to Haymitch and Peeta, they—"

"What?" It comes out one octave higher than I intend. Peeta knows about it? Had he already read the letter and didn't tell me? Worse; had he already talked to Johanna about it? "Does Peeta know about it?" I can't disguise the anger in my voice, feeling the heat in my cheeks and ears. Johanna opens her mouth to speak, but then closes it. She looks at the door and back to me, as if trying to understand what happened.

"Ah ..." She hesitates, shutting her eyes again. "I don't know?" she offers me. I scowl at her, kneeling in front of the couch to grab her wrist.

"Don't lie to me." It would be a more demanding request if I wasn't still choking on my words.

"I really thought he had talked to you." She weaves her hand into her spiky hair, not meeting my stare. "He's just probably waiting for the right moment. You shouldn't worry about it."

I sit on my haunches back on the floor, something that I didn't feel for a long time growing in my heart. But unfortunately, I know what it is: betrayal.

"He, he didn't—" My words falter. I'm not not sure what to think of this. When I look up at the window, I see that the sun is already down.

"Katniss, it's not a big deal."

"What!"

"You won't be alone."

I'm not feeling betrayed because I'll be alone. It's that Peeta should have told me. My momentary sobriety is fleeting as I roll over on the floor again, using one knee to support me as I try to sit up on the couch.

"Katniss, don't pass out yet." Her words are coming from far away. I lift my head from my chest, the dizziness filling up my mind. "Do you need to throw up?" Johanna asks as she gets up from the sofa, showing better balance than me. She adjusts my limp body on the couch. I try to shake my head, but honestly, I don't know. It's a fifty-fifty chance for me to spit my guts out, or simply die right here. Johanna attempts to say something, but the sound of the front door opening dampens her words. She mumbles, and my eyelids feel heavier.

"Wow, you two had quite a party here, huh?"

I hear Peeta's voice and sense a smell that probably would make me salivate if my stomach wasn't whirling so much. I press my eyelids harder, different emotions filling me. The memory of our make-out session in his kitchen, the anger for him not telling me about the Capitol, the flashes of the dream that I heartily refused to tell Johanna about ... I just notice my eyes are closed again when Peeta shakes my shoulder, and I'm forced to open them to watch his reddish, worried face hovering over mine.

"Hey," I say quietly.

"She's sloshed." Johanna interjects, lightly slapping my socked foot. Peeta sighs deeply, and I wonder if the stare he shoots Johanna is a reproachful one.

"I'll take her to bed." He seems disappointed when he picks me up, now a natural gesture for him. But he shouldn't; he's the one not being honest here! I rest my head on his shoulder, facing Johanna as he turns to the hall.

"Maybe you are right, Johanna," I don't control my words, feeling the necessary courage to talk about such things near Peeta. "He can be more like the aggressive type."

"Shut up, brainless." Johanna says, and I feel Peeta's embrace stiffening.

He slowly carries me to my bedroom, careful not to hit my unmoving head on the door frame as we enter my room. Peeta places me on the bed, and as soon as my head hits the pillow the room starts to spin. It's a good sensation though.

"Try to get some sleep."

I pout at his tone; he seems upset, avoiding my eyes. My probably unfocused eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me about the Capitol?"

He darts his eyes to me, surprised by my question.

"Johanna said you knew. Why didn't you tell me?" I hope I'm not pouting anymore. I try to sit on the bed, but give up the idea when it makes me feel like riding a merry-go-round.

"I didn't want to upset you." One of his hands rests on my cheek, and I turn to kiss his palm.

"Well, you're stupid." I face him again, seeing how he looks shocked at my remark. "What did you think? That I wasn't going to find out?" Maybe I'm mad at him, but the warmth from his hand is making my words sound breathless not just because I'm angry.

"I'm sorry. I was going to—"

I use both my hands to level my body to reach his mouth. I'm aware that I'm kissing him as he sneaks his hands around my waist, pushing me back to the mattress. The room continues to spin.

"Katniss, you're—"

I don't give him the chance to respond or even to elaborate a thought, covering his mouth with mine again. An entire afternoon of dirty, sexy talking is flowing through my mind, rushing down my body and controlling my hungry limbs. He can probably taste the bitter that the liquor left on my tongue, and I can feel the delicate sugar over his lips.

"Stop—"

He's still trying to argue as I pull him to the bed, his weight winding me as he lands over my body.

"Katniss ..."

He tries to pull away, craning to the side, but instead I take the offer of his exposed neck. His words seem to ask me to stop, but his hands are thinking differently, finally exploring me.

"You're drunk!" He shoves my body, and for a moment I realize what I'm doing. "Katniss, stop!" His hands are still on my waist, but he stopped moving them. "Just go to sleep, please." Peeta bites his lower lip as he touches my shoulders, and I don't know what to say. I'm mad at him for not telling me about the Capitol, I want him to keep touching me, and why is the room is still rotating?

I curl up to my side, getting away from his touch. My stomach grumbles with the mix of liquor and the feeling of rejection.

"You don't want me?" I'm not facing him as I ask, afraid he might agree. He puffs, and I sense a punch on the mattress, making my body bounce on the bed.

"Look at me." His voice is demanding as he turns me to his side. "Look at me."

I force my eyelids open, finding a deep blue gaze. A question was forming in my throat, but was muffled by a fierce pair of lips. I respond to the kiss eagerly, ignoring the parade going on in my guts. His hands find my waist again, pressing strong enough to let a moan escape. Peeta ignores it and continues the pressure, pushing my body under his as he once more is on top of me. Unconsciously, I spread my legs to allow our covered chests to touch, and not for a second does he break the kiss. I feel him adjusting our bodies so his pelvis is over my abdomen; I gasp when I feel his hard member. I'm panting when he thrusts it against my belly, and even though the hard material of his jeans is separating us, he grunts deeply. His entire body is tense; his kisses have a weight of possession instead of love.

Something is wrong.

"Is this what you want?" The hands around my waist make their way up to my shoulders, pinning me to the bed. "Aggression?" His voice is a hiss and his eyes are shining, but not with lust or desire. It's fear, it's ... hurt. He thrusts against me again, and this time I contract my muscles as the pain consumes them.

"I didn't tell you about the Capitol because you'd freak out." He discards my body so easily as he sits on the bed, ignoring my outstretched hand. Peeta doesn't look at me as he gets up, heading to the door. "Sleep it off." The door slams so loudly that I jolt.

I try to follow him, failing miserably as I slump on the floor. I hate carousels. As I lift up my head to try to stand up again, my stomach growls and I feel the acid in the back of my throat. I think about going to the bathroom, but the thought doesn't get to my legs. I kneel on the side of my bed as I clench the wooden surface, opening my mouth to vomit, feeling the hot tears streaming down my face as I battle for breath.

I throw up the chocolate; I throw up the liquor; I throw up the strawberries. After, in a mindless effort, releasing an inhuman yell, as if not only my entrails but also my soul is emptying, I throw up my anger for the Capitol, my sorrow for my sister and my fear for Peeta.

But it is not what makes me pass out. What really makes me give up to the darkness is the idea of forgetting the stinging feeling deep in my heart.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I made a reference to the novel "The City and the Mountains", from J. M. Eça de Queirós, a Portuguese novelist from the nineteenth century.

Well ... I felt like Dr. Frankenstein writing this chapter. I started three different files, deleted almost three thousand words and finally came up with this last version. It was supposed to make you laugh and then wanting to physically hurt me in the end; or at least let you saying "damn". Did it work?

Special thanks to the betareaders: **EsmePlatt95** and **Project Team Beta**.

Thank you all for the amazing reviews.

Maia


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

I never had a choice, just an infinitesimal spark of hope that was crushed by reality's rough tread. I was lying to myself—living in a world of pure fantasy in my fragile imagination when I candidly believed my last visit to the Capitol would be during my trail. I lived many horrific moments between those mountains, and just the shadowy idea of my upcoming visit launched me into a drowning state of sorrow. I couldn't think of anything else; flashes of my nightmares came to life every time I closed my eyes.

There is no real reason to dread—Johanna told me this; my fear is completely psychological, although its bases are pure and real.

I don't have a sister anymore. This is extremely real to me.

Haymitch helps me through my hangover; after all, this is something he is an expert at. By the spiteful yet concerned way he wakes me up—mumbling "rise and shine" so softly but shaking my shoulders until I _almost _fall out of bed—I think he was responsible for cleaning up my room last night. He is tense, his body stiff and his eyes red from a sleepless night. But more than that, he is sober. Haymitch is completely lucid as he helps me to ingest liquids and take a shower to present myself downstairs to an equally tired Greasy Sae. The smell of the eggs almost makes me throw up again. Those signs—both of their completely exhausted looks, the way his hand quivers when he tries to hand me a plate, the absence of Sae's granddaughter—they aren't concerned about me. I'm not the real problem.

But it takes Johanna to show up, her right hand wrapped in a bandage and the swell of her black eye, for realization to finally hit me.

Peeta had an episode. One of the bad ones, including violence and breaking stuff. That's why Sae is here, why Haymitch is sober and why Johanna doesn't make a smartass reply when she sees my hangover face.

I leave my eggs untouched and stagger back to my bedroom—my chloride-smelling bedroom.

The Capitol did it again. It destroyed any vain drop of hope I might've had created, drying it along with Peeta's sanity. I shut my eyes, not wanting to shed one single tear for that cupola of self-appointed heroes. But I cry myself to sleep when I conclude that the responsible for what happened yesterday is nobody protected by the Capitol's influence. It's the despicable being lying on my bed.

I hate myself.

* * *

The cold drops on my face push me out of the gray limbo I'm currently resting in. I can hear a familiar voice, but the words are tangled. I press my palms against my unfocussed eyes, blinking repeatedly until I can distinguish the face in front of me.

"Wake up."

I shake my head, rolling over to bury it in the pillow.

"C'mon, Katniss, wake up."

I ignore Johanna's voice along with her probably concerned look.

"Go away," I mumble under my breath, but it just comes out as a chewed snort.

"You've been here for almost twenty-four hours. You need to eat."

I feel the cool drops again and force myself to look up at her. She has a glass of water in her hand, hovering it dangerously over my face.

"I'll do it, you know it. Now get up." She offers her left hand to help me get off the bed. Slowly, I sit up, blinking again as she opens the window, letting the late morning light stream into the room. I take a better look at her; her black eye has subsided, but her hand is still bandaged. I shut my eyes and rub them with my index finger and thumb.

"I suck, Johanna. Just leave me here."

"You are going to get up, take a bath, put on your boots, have breakfast and meet me in your living room. If you don't do this, I'll call those stupid Capitol shrinks so they'll lock you up in a training tower for another month."

I don't have to look up to search for a confirmation. I know she is serious.

I almost ask her when we are eating breakfast. The question starts to form in my empty stomach, follows the path that my bile did when I was drunk, and dies in my toast-filled mouth. I choke and remain silent.

As I drag my boots through the route that will lead us to the woods, the question almost pops up again. This time I have to firmly sink my teeth into my lower lip to prevent the first word from escaping. I'm afraid to ask; I'm afraid to know. If Johanna notices any of my efforts to remain quiet, she doesn't say a word. I know we are going to the woods because this path only leads to the gate, the closest to the Village. The heat of the upcoming summer causes me to take off my jacket as we pass the simple gate. Johanna's face is red; she obviously is not comfortable with the warm weather, her home District being in the heart of the Northern deciduous forest. In school, we learned that District Seven has fierce winters, but I'm not so sure anymore; school is something from a different lifetime.

We walk in silence for almost half a mile, and part of me forgets my worries, pleased to be in the woods after my absence due to my leg. I didn't bring my bow—we are not here to hunt—, but I see the reflection of polished steel shining from Johanna's belt. She stops near a clearing, sitting on a damp rock.

"It's too warm for me, but it's still woods. Sit." She points with her chin to the smaller rock next to hers. I obey and shift my head to be completely under the shadow of a nearby oak tree. "I thought it'd be better for us to talk here in the woods, since there's no sharp object near us. I learned a valuable lesson about that." She waves her injured hand, hoping that I'll fill in the blanks. "I'm going to talk, and you are just going to listen, so don't say anything until—"

"Is he alright?" The question leaves my mouth before I can reorganize my thoughts. The truth is, no matter how afraid I am to hear her answer, I need to know. Johanna rolls her eyes, since she had just asked me to shut up.

"That's what I'm talking about, brainless. Just listen to me."

"But I—"

"Shut up, Katniss." Her voice is even, not mad or exasperated. I turn away from her and bite my tongue. "Right. First things first. I don't know what the fuck happened in your bedroom when Peeta carried you upstairs. I'm not even sure if you do …"

She's right; I don't remember it clearly. But I'm sure it involved vomiting.

"… And I didn't know how messed up Peeta still was. Really, I was kind of shocked to see him."

"What—"

"Shut up." Her tone is still stable, but she raises a hand to my mouth, placing her finger roughly on my lips. I chew the inside of my cheek. "The thing is, when he came back downstairs, he looked a little ... nervous. Unstable. Crazy. Whatever." She clears her throat. I'm afraid I know where this story is going to end. "I asked if he was okay. He just stormed out of your house and, being the stupid grown-up in this story, I followed him. When we got back to his house, things got a little ... messy. Long story short, I got a bite on my hand and a black eye. Nothing major, and I honestly thought he was stronger than that." She smirks, and I get almost sick to think that she's almost proud of it. "Anyway, he cut his hand and hit his head on his living room wall."

"Did you—"

"Of course not—he did it all by himself. I got hurt trying to stop him from doing so. Obviously, I kind of failed." She stretches, and for a moment we pay attention to nature's sounds around us, the wildlife blooming in the singing of birds and discreet squeal of hiding squirrels.

"He's fine, don't worry," she says after our silent moment. "Four stitches in one hand, a good ice compress on his stubborn head and he's fine." She crosses her arms over her chest, looking down at me. It's my turn to talk.

"Can I see him?"

"Yeah, I thought you were going to ask that. His body is practically healed, but his mind ... " She trails off, obviously searching for the right words.

"I need to see him." I try to get up, but her abrupt pull on my sleeve doesn't let me.

"Katniss, this is serious. His doctor from the Capitol even wanted him to go there, but since we're all going there soon anyway, he decided to wait."

"I still need to see him." I jerk my arm away from her grasp, but she insistently holds my elbow again.

"Katniss."

I meet her deep brown glaze before I sit back on the rock.

"He doesn't want to see you."

"He's just scared," I say quickly, as if to convince myself it's true. "I can help him, Johanna, it's not the first time he's had an attack. I was with him for a couple of others, I know what to do."

"He bit me, Katniss; yelling your name while hitting his head on a concrete wall." She locks her eyes with me. "Can you help with that?"

"I, I ..."

She doesn't interrupt me, letting me stutter wordlessly. The progress we had was real; our weeks together, the nights by his side, the kisses, the painting ... everything was real. I can't let it drain between my fingers and disappear in the dry soil of my life.

"I need to try," I say in a sigh.

Johanna takes a deep breath, and the slightest shade of a smile crosses her full lips. "Good. Now please"—she gets up, passing a hand over her knife's hilt on her belt—"let's try to kill something here."

* * *

Five days. I'm surprised to find out that I just have five days to prepare myself to go back to the Capitol. Johanna is leaving in a couple of days, and we'll meet her on our way to the West, probably switching trains in District Eight.

I'm not sleeping well; the other side of my bed is always empty. The nightmares are back, my faithful companions for the nights—even Buttercup doesn't show up anymore.

I can't think of anything else for an entire minute before Peeta's face floods my mind. I try so hard to remember exactly what happened when I was drunk, but nothing comes to me.

During a fitful sleep, in the middle of a nightmare, the remembrance of Peeta's body over mine invades me and I wake up mute, with a strangled scream in my throat. My stomach is paralyzed with pain, like a hard punch knocking the wind out of me. Different emotions battle in my mind, from arousal to fear, forbidding me to rest. I touch myself, muffling in the pillow my cry of pleasure that melts in tears of agony seconds later. I sleep for three hours before the same pain wakes up me once more.

I have been trying to go to Peeta's house, desperately wanting to talk to him. But Haymitch emphasizes he doesn't want to see me, and no matter my protests or sneaking attempts, the almost-sober mentor is in Peeta's living room twenty-four seven, frustrating all my attempts of contact.

Defeated, in my own bedroom, I can hear Peeta's anguished screams, pure pain mixed with anger. When his throat is almost bleeding from effort, he probably cries himself to sleep. Or that is how I imagine him, as I do the same.

* * *

Plutarch called this morning. He told me our schedule, oblivious to my indifference or lack of response. We need to attend an interview, a meeting and, if I'm available, they want me to perform in a new propo called "The Sons of the Rebellion." Haymitch takes the phone out of my hand before I open a crack on the wall, due to the strength I'm using to hit the device on the concrete. He heard me yelling and, thankfully for my furniture, calms me before I break anything else. I'm devastated, I'm tired, I'm sad. I'm the one that needs to play a real or not real game since I can't discern my dreams from reality.

I rehearsed what I'm going to say to Peeta over the last few days. I keep mumbling the words as I head for the train station, Haymitch by my side. I don't ask, but I assume Peeta is already on the train. I want to say that I'm sorry. Not for whatever I did or said to him in the bedroom, but for the fact that my silly act made him suffer. Hurt him. For that I'm terribly sorry.

Ignoring the attendant that disappears with my small baggage, I head to my designated compartment, slouching listlessly on the mattress, face down. And cry.

Three fast knocks on my door make my head dart up, turning in the direction of the sound. It can't be Peeta; I know I'm the one that is going to have to make a move this time. I know this ... right? I swallow hard as I open the door with shaking hands, not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed when the face that greets me is from the same attendant from before. He doesn't wear an Avox clothing—those kinds of services were banished from Panem—but I'm still surprised when he speaks.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Everdeen. Mr. Abernathy is asking for you to join him for dinner in the restaurant car," he says politely, and I don't feel any hostility in his voice. I nod before I close the door. It takes me twenty minutes, but I go meet Haymitch for an early dinner. I hope I washed my face well enough to hide any crying marks.

"Oh, good to see you. Sit," he says with his mouth full of black bread. My eyes quickly search the car, but we're alone here. I reach for a glass of water, facing Haymitch as I sit in front of him.

"Where is Peeta?"

Haymitch was the one living in Peeta's house for the last few days, so he should know. And I need to know. He grabs a flask from his suit and takes a swig, and I see that there is no more reason for him to keep sober. Maybe it's a good sign.

"Yeah, 'bout that." He clears his throat.

"Haymitch." My voice sounds cold, but my heart is racing. "Where is Peeta?" I repeat, feeling the weight of each word seeping from my mouth. "I need to talk to him."

"That may have to wait." He takes another gulp and shut his eyes while he grimaces. "He's not coming."

I release the glass in my hand, watching as it falls from my fingers and lands on the thick carpet, not breaking. Unlike the glass, my heart feels like it has shattered into tiny, painful pieces as I get up from my chair, hoping to flee the car before Haymitch can see any more of my suffering, the tears already threatening to escape.

* * *

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I'm eighteen years old. My home is District Twelve. I have a smelly cat named Buttercup.

I'm one of the worst human beings I know. And I know a lot of bad people.

That's why it's so hard for me to understand why an entire nation chooses my face as a symbol, _my_ face to put on flags and fight for in the name of liberty. I may be a lot of things, but I'm not free. I'm not free as two guards escort me to the meeting room, where I'm supposed to participate in a discussion about the upcoming festival to celebrate the incredible Rebel Victory. They even recycled the word "victor."

We're staying at a hotel near the center of the Capitol—despite my strong desire to stay as far as possible from the presidential mansion. Johanna's room is right next to mine; her normally frisky mood is stained with the heavy weight of death in the air of this city. At least for us, victors, Capitol will always be synonymous with death.

When the guards open the detailed wooden door that leads me to a bright room, I squint my eyes to try to recognize all the faces around the rectangular table in the center. Haymitch is here. Plutarch. Enobaria. My heart flutters when I see Annie, glowing in her pregnancy, though with absent eyes. But it definitely stops when I lock my glance with Gale. He's sporting a perfectly shaved beard, but not with those artistic designs so often found in the Capitol—it almost hides his blush. His hair is cut short, the same way when I last saw him, the military way. And his eyes match mine in our gray, steely gleam, but I believe my face is marked with fatigue, different from his rested one. I deviate my eyes and find a chair next to Johanna, who nods at me.

I don't pay attention to a single word Plutarch blabbers, other than instinctively dart my eyes at his clownish figure when I hear phrases with the words "mockingjay" or "propo," though even then I'm not able to process any new information. I try to focus my eyes on my scarred hands folded on my lap, but they stubbornly trail to Gale. He seems focused on the new information, and I discover he'll be the chief of security for any activity involving the victors. Great, I'll be around him my entire stay in the Capitol. I don't want him here, not now, not seeing how broken and destroyed I still am. Opposite to his apparently renewed form. And when he speaks, it's the same voice from my old friend. Strong, confident; not a single hint of the man responsible for innocent deaths. I look back at my hands.

After the meeting—and after Johanna's small kick on my shin to alert me the reunion was over—I go straight to the elevator, heading back to the entrance hall, but this time with no guards next to me. It's a small comfort, knowing that nobody is close to watch my tears if I lose control before I plan to. Johanna meets me when the orange-haired man opens the front door to the sidewalk, where a car is waiting to take us back to the hotel.

"It could be worse …" she says calmly. "They could actually have mentioned how miserable you look instead of just acting like it."

"Johanna, just—"

Her sympathetic smile slowly fades as she focuses her attention behind me, at the door I just passed though.

"What?" But my question is useless as I turn around, facing the tall and massive Gale. I can't hide my aversion as I look back at Johanna, ignoring Gale's tentative touch on my shoulder.

"Katniss, please." It's the first time he addresses to me, but our similarities is repulsive. I look at him and all I can see it's the thing I most hate in me. We're both murderers.

"Should we go?" Johanna asks me as a black car pulls over, the one designated to take us back to the hotel. "Or I can go and call another car for you."

Two seconds. She gives me only two seconds to think of an answer before she disappears inside the sedan. It's not enough time as Gale clears his throat, and I carefully, warily turn to watch his face. The beard is shining as it was at the meeting, but his eyes have lost their decisiveness, their strength. There's no one to pose for, just me. He doesn't need to wear his mask for me. I mentally curse myself for not realizing this before.

"I wrote a letter …" He trails off, unsure of my reaction. I nod. "I started three other ones, but since you didn't answer the first, I thought that maybe … maybe you were still mad."

"Mad?" I can't hold my tongue, and the mixed emotions dueling in me don't help. "I'm not mad. I'm sad, disappointed, depressed and miserable!"

This is the last thing I planned to do today: have an emotional breakdown in front of Gale. He lets me shout, soberly quiet as I flood him with my sorrows.

"Look at me, Gale! Do you see a war heroine?"

He tries to touch me with a reluctant hand that I easily jerk away. "I'm alone, Gale, totally alone in a forsaken district, with ghosts and broken people to help me. Now, please, _please_ just leave me alone!" I'm shaking as he reaches for me again, and now I'm too limp to push him. "Please." The salty taste of my tears is bitter, and I shut my eyes to keep more from falling.

"Catnip … I'm sorry."

I'm stiff as a dead body when he hugs me, cursing myself when I feel the salt in my mouth again.

"Ask." The statement comes out between gritted teeth. I'm sure he wants to know, at least this I could read from his gray eyes. He releases me, but I don't look up to his face.

"I really don't—"

"Ask!" I crane my head to look at the dim lighted street, breathing deeply to try to regain control.

Once he is encouraged, he manages to inquire. "Where is he?"

I surprise even myself when the airy laugh comes out from my lungs, and I have to balance my body on the nearest small tree not to stumble. He doesn't see anything funny, of course not.

"You know ..." I use the back of my hand to wipe a new tear. "I managed to break him deeper than Snow did." One sob comes out, but I muffle the next one with another laugh.

"Katniss …" But he doesn't complete his sentence.

We stay painfully silent until the same black sedan pulls over.

* * *

Johanna knocks at the door connecting our rooms three times before she gives up. Yelling a nonchalant "Just don't kill yourself!", she turns off her lights. I didn't even turn my lights on in the first place. I make a beeline for the bed and collapse on it, ignoring anything about pajamas or bedclothes. I don't want to sleep, but it comes and goes, making me drown and then swim back to the surface of reality several times. Thankfully, I don't dream. I don't think. I don't feel. I define my existence only in the dark and cold of this bed.

The knock awakes me, the lavishly furnished room already filled with light from the wee morning. I glance at the door connecting to Johanna's room, but the sound is not from there. It takes another sequence of knocks for me to place it. My body is slightly sore as I sit up, rubbing my equally sore eyes. I'm wearing yesterday's plain pants and white, long-sleeved shirt as I open the door, my sleepy eyes widening as I choke a gasp.

A flushed face from using the stairs. A tangled mess of blond hair; a tired pair of blue eyes.

I have never been so disappointed to see my mother.

* * *

**Author's Note: **The last line killed you, huh?

Yeah … yeah. Things will get better … eventually. I really wanted to explore the relationship between Katniss and her mother, and let's just say that she really needs motherly advice now.

I promise a better, I mean, a happier chapter in the next update! Keep reading, the best is yet to come … hmm …

Special thanks to the betareaders: **EsmePlatt95** and **Project Team Beta**.

Thank you for reading,

Maia


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: **This turned out to be a big, big, big chapter! (you just read this with that annoying accent, didn't you?) To keep it consistent with the rest of the fic, I split it in two. But this chapter and the next one are supposed to be just one big chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

"Haymitch called me. He said you were coming to the Capitol. I ... I thought it was a good opportunity to see you." She doesn't need to explain any further. My mother won't touch her delicate feet in District Twelve anymore; or at least as long as her heart starts to mend from the piece she lost.

"I'm on the next floor, room 413. I took three days off the hospital in Four ..." She interlaces her fingers as she sits beside me on the bed. She is failing miserably at trying to hide that she can see how emotionally wrecked I am. My mom is tiptoeing around me; of course she is. She doesn't know if I'm going to accept the fondness and caress she's ready to give. "I traveled during the night. I'm sorry if I woke you up ..."

"That's okay. I wasn't really sleeping." I don't need to look in the mirror to see how miserable I appear.

"Katniss ..." She fiddles with the sheet on the bed. "I'm sorry if I didn't go to Twelve before. I hope you understand."

I do. I don't know if I'd be there if I didn't have the restraining order. My answer is a quiet nod.

"Do you ..." She avoids glancing at me, finding a new interest in the weak sunlight seeping from the slanted window. "Do you want me to leave?"

No matter how deep the wound in her heart is, how much of herself was burnt along with Prim, she is not reacting nearly as bad as when my father died. She is trying to take care of me, at least considering her limitations.

I want to tell her that it's okay for her to leave; that I'm fine and don't need help. That the last months in Twelve were eerily happy and I'm a completely mature woman, capable of dealing with my new found problems. But I can't tell her that. I'll never lie to my family again.

"Please don't." I need to be the one to close the distance between us, to grant her the access to my body and heart. I touch her pale hand, which was busy again softening the already plain sheets. "Don't leave me." The request is bitter. The confession of my necessity of help, the broken shell, the vulnerability. They are all bitter feelings to me, but not new.

I sense a tear and feel her long exhale as she hugs me close, holding me tighter than I remember her being capable of doing.

"Katniss, I—"

"Don't talk," I say fast, before she can start an affected speech that I'm not prepared for. "And please don't cry." My words seem meaningless as my own tears sting my eyes.

We cry in comfortable silence. She strokes the mess that is my hair, and I don't let go of her embrace. I find myself lying on the bed again, but now comfortably cozy as my mother pulls the covers over me. I don't protest as she reaches down to take off my shoes, relief running through my bent toes. I sniff silently as she uses her hand to clear my tears. The distant humming of a lullaby catches my ears before I surrender to the exhaustion of my body and dive into a blank state of rest.

* * *

The room is dark when I open my eyes. After a few blinks, I realize the window is shut and there is a thick curtain over it, preventing the sunlight from getting in. My eyes hurt a little when I rub them, and I yawn loudly, sitting on the bed. I search for the light switch, my gnawed nails scratching the wall until I finally find the button. The suddenly brightness that floods the room makes me shut my eyes and let out a small curse.

"Are you feeling okay?" A sleepy voice calls from the other side of the room, and it takes me a second to focus on the figure that was quietly sleeping on the armchair. My mother combs her light hair with her fingers, and I can see a few white stripes trying to fight their way among the blonde ones. She offers me a weak smile and says, "You slept the entire morning. I decided to stay here if you needed me. I hope you don't mind."

There it is again, the hesitation. She's afraid to trespass any invisible barrier I constructed between us years ago. But I don't want that. I want to be better than she was at her loss; I want to prove to her that you can still take care of your beloveds even if part of you is missing. This thought hurts as I remember Peeta; what a hypocrite I am for thinking this.

"What time is it?" My voice is also hoarse.

"Almost two in the afternoon. Johanna was here wanting to talk to you."

"Did anyone else call?"

My mother bites her lips and I widen my eyes. Maybe Peeta called, maybe he—

"Plutarch. There is a dinner tonight. A gala night, or something ..." She stretches, apparently as sleepy as I am.

"I thought the celebration was going to be in a couple of days."

"I guess they have a pre-celebration before the main celebration." We both smile at this, but hers fails first.

"Mother, I ..." I need to divert my eyes when a hint of hope shines in her blue gaze. "I'm sorry." I don't even know exactly what I'm sorry for, but it feels right to say it. It's my turn to fidget with the sheets. I'm still entertained with the embroidered coverlet when her pale hand rests on top of mine. We have the same hands, though different colored.

"Katniss, I'm the one who owes you an apology." Both our eyes are locked on our hands. "I'm sorry for not being there for you. Prim was ..." She takes a deep, shaky breath, gathering courage to continue. "She was the best thing in my life … and so are you."

I feel a tear fall on my hand, but I don't look up as she continues, "And even though I tried, I couldn't go to Twelve. I bought the tickets twice."

When I'm finally able to meet her face, there's a smile on her thin lips. "I want to be part of your life. If you let me," she concludes.

My mouth opens and closes silently before I can speak. I can almost feel her anxiety increasing with every second longer that it takes me to answer her.

"I'm not very good with, with—"

"Words. I know." She completes my phrase for me, and I can't help but smile. I nod, using the back of my hand to disguise my sniffing. I want to be honest with my mother, I really do. I'm just not good at speeches and declarations. And what I most need now is some advice, not promises and excuses.

Exhaling audibly, I decide to trust her.

"I messed it up. With Peeta, I mean. That's why I'm so ... so weird." I don't want to use the word "depressed", not knowing what feelings it may provoke her.

"What happened?" She doesn't hesitate this time, resting a hand over my shoulders. I stiffen quickly, but soon relax under her touch.

"I don't know exactly. But he had an episode and he doesn't want to talk to me anymore."

"Episode?"

I explain everything to her, detail by detail. Thankfully, she was always a good listener. First, she worries about me being so close to someone so unstable, but she soon understands that I'm not okay either. And that Peeta would not hurt me anymore (I leave out the bruised shoulder part of the story). I can't read her expression as I tell her about the afternoon of drinking with Johanna, but I know Johanna can deal with a disapproving mother. When I tell her that Peeta didn't come to the Capitol because of me, she's a bit confused.

"What do you mean he's not coming?" she asks me. "When Plutarch called, he insisted on mentioning that your pairing in the official dinner night would be Peeta."

"What?" I'm also confused. "Do you think he's here, in the Capitol?"

"I don't know. But Katniss, you should let him come to you." There's kindness in her voice, and I heartily accept the advice. Though it's killing me inside.

We share a late lunch at the Hotel's restaurant. The food, as always, is amazing. Soft meat, wonderfully smelling creams, colorful fruits, spicy sauces ... I need self-control not to stuff myself with more than I can handle. I know how this fancy food can make simple stomachs like mine a little bit uncomfortable.

My mother watches me more than she eats, and when I realize why, my heart aches a little. She's happy and relieved to see her daughter eating so well, after years of hopelessly watching my sister and me starve, or at least, eat less than we should have. It's enough for me to skip dessert.

Johanna shows up before my mother can finish her strawberry cake, sitting at our table without a proper invitation. Like Johanna needs one.

"Morning, sleepyhead. How are you?" She gives a brief nod towards my mother before turning to me again.

"I'm fine."

"You definitely look better. But since you looked like shit, this is not actually a compliment."

My mother clears her throat at the bad language, and I have to concentrate really hard not to laugh at Johanna's complete indifference. "Coming with me today? I scheduled an appointment for you."

"Appointment?" Both my mother and I ask.

"Yeah, at the clinic." Johanna completes calmly, serving a piece of cake for herself. "Aurora, Aurulia, Au-something called and wants to see you."

"Aurelius." I should probably know he would want to see me. I just don't understand why he'd call Johanna.

"Yeah, that one," she says with her mouth full, "I'm leaving in thirty minutes. Go take a shower and meet me in the lobby." Johanna mumbles a good-bye and leaves her half-finished cake behind as she heads towards the elevator.

My mother uses a perfectly white napkin to dab her slightly red lips. She rests the cloth before looking at me. "You okay with this appointment?" She knows Doctor Aurelius from her last visit to the Capitol, during my recovery and trail.

"Yeah." I try to sound relaxed. "It's probably no big deal."

* * *

I know something is wrong when the car pulls over a clinic I've never seen. It's not the hospital where I recovered from the burns and where I know Doctor Aurelius works. Johanna doesn't even flicker as she sees my confusion.

"Oh, yeah," she says without a second glance in my direction. "We're not going to see Doctor A. I just made that up so you wouldn't die from embarrassment in front of your mother."

"What do you mean?" I ask, with a certain hint of curiosity. A tall man opens the metallic door for us to enter the clinic.

"It's just a different kind of doctor. She's used to working with Victors, so don't worry. She's very discreet." She seems very comfortable as we enter the white room; paintings of bright hue decorate the walls, an incredible, calming mix of colors and serenity. A woman—that appeared from nowhere—greets Johanna by name and ushers us to a smaller room, but similarly decorated.

"What's going on, Johanna?" I ask when the woman leaves us alone. "What appointment is this?"

"A gynecologist, Katniss. There's this new birth control method that is specific for each patient and it is, in the Capitol's words, a hundred percent accurate. But you need to take a few exams for it."

It takes me an entire second and a grin from her to fully understand. I flush uncontrollably, biting my lower lip. But then my blush is more of anger instead of shame.

"Is this some kind of joke? You know Peeta and I are not in good terms right now." I say between gritted teeth, staring deep into her amber eyes. "We never even—"

"Don't start. I'm doing you a favor, can't you see?" She meets my eyes fearlessly, a different glint on her light brow glance. "Okay, maybe now you two are fighting, but you will come around eventually. You're neighbors, in love, whatever. And, after our talk in your house, I think it's important for you to be prepared." She squints at me, raising her chin. "Or do you want to have kids, Mockingjay?"

Hell no. She knows that; I'm never having kids. I'm not putting innocent children in the world to suffer.

Johanna watches me as I deal with the information.

"That's what I thought," she says firmly, adjusting her blouse. "So shut up and don't act like the prude you are."

"I'm not—"

"Miss Mason, Miss Everdeen."

I turn around to see a short woman, strangely matching the decoration in the room with her white coat and colorful jewels. "Welcome."

"Hello, Patricia." Johanna outstretches her hand and they share a warm handshake. "It's good to see you again."

"You gained weight," she comments, making a circular motion with her fingers as if asking Johanna to turn around. Surprisingly, Johanna obeys and makes a quick spin in her place.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Johanna answers, her peculiar smirk across her face.

"It is." Patricia finally turns to me, offering a kind smile. "Miss Everdeen. It's a pleasure to meet you."

I coyly accept her hand, feeling the strength of her grip. After our handshake, she cranes her neck to look up at Johanna. "I thought she was taller."

"Common mistake." Johanna reassures her, and they both ignore my frown. I can see why Johanna likes this woman: they are annoyingly alike.

"Please, let's go to my office. We will be able to speak privately." She gestures for us to follow her, and I'm still quiet as we enter a different room, with a desk in the corner and an examination table in the center. I can't avoid the shiver that runs through my body at the memories of these places in the Capitol. They just mean pain for me.

Johanna assumes the talking and I'm grateful for it. In time, I see that the doctor is indeed gentle, and extremely kind when she addresses me again. She shares jokes I don't understand with Johanna, probably from her earlier time as a Victor. I sense a little discomfort from Johanna's part when she mentions how she met Dr. Patricia, and I can't stop diverting my thoughts to Finnick's declaration in District Thirteen. Maybe there was a specific reason why the Capitol would want fresh new Victors to have a private gynecologist.

Taking my blood samples is easy; after all I'm really used to it. But I was kind of unprepared for the next part of the exam. I hope that my eyes didn't match my blush as the Doctor asked me to spread my legs wider so she'd be able to take samples from ... somewhere else. None of them mention Peeta throughout the appointment, but I'm Katniss Everdeen. Patricia should know why I'd want to take birth control shots.

The results in the Capitol come much faster than in the districts. I believe the reason is that the machines which operate the exams are here. After half an hour of waiting in the white, large room, the same woman that we first greeted calls us to another room to get the shots.

I take a mental note to ask Johanna with whom she's sleeping to have this necessity. She doesn't blink as the needle jams her arm, and soon I'm next. I don't jolt, but a hiss comes out my mouth as the needle penetrates my skin. I can't push the image of Peeta's smile away as the nurse give us explanations about the duration of the shots and when should we get another one.

And I also can't stop the butterflies in my stomach as I think of this shot ever being useful.

* * *

"Going to the gala tonight?" Johanna asks as we enter her bedroom. I'll go to mine through the door dividing our rooms.

"Do I have a choice?" I abandon my weight over her bed, sighing when I hear her denial.

"No, you don't. They sent me your invitation." She points to the nightstand next to her bed, and I idly take the two cards on it. One has "Johanna Mason" written on it in gold letters. I frown when I see the initials at the bottom of the card: "Accompanying, H. A.".

"What is this 'H. A.' here?"

"It's my date's name. You can't go to a gala alone." She snorts, as if I had just asked the stupidest thing ever.

"H.A. ..." I say almost to myself.

"Haymitch Abernathy. At least my date will be with me at the bar." She grins. I grab the other envelope, shifting to rest on my back on the bed. On the second card "Katniss Everdeen" is written, and I freeze inside at the initials of my date.

Honestly, I don't know what would have been my reaction if the initials were "P. M." But they aren't.

They're "G. H."

* * *

He is breathtakingly handsome. Broad shoulders, short hair, perfect beard. His darker skin highlights his eyes, which have a hue of shifting quicksilver, with a gleam that would make any woman's heart accelerate. But not mine.

His touch is gentle as he offers me his arm, my light gray eyes matching the shade of his tuxedo. Apparently, he wasn't allowed to wear his military uniform today. His garment sinfully matches my dress: a cream beige that—this hurts my heart to say—was designed by Cinna.

I'm stiff as I take his elbow, doing my best to avoid his glance as we greet countless faces. None of them has the courage to ask about Peeta, but, as far as they know, my date is my charming cousin.

Gale guides us skillfully through the saloon preventing me from meeting certain people. Principally entertainment-related people. He finally breaks our thin silence when we go to the balcony; the fresh breeze playing with my loose hair as I look at the loud city.

"You look better." He's obviously referring to last night. I think my talk with my mother helped my moods.

"Thank you. You don't look bad yourself." I try a smile, and he laughs lightly. A moment of silence follows, but it's not awkward. It reminds me of our time together in the woods, waiting for the game to show.

"How is the reconstruction?" he suddenly asks. I'm glad to talk about something that won't lead me to another outburst.

"Good, I guess. I don't go to town often. But they're building a new medicine factory. The mines are closed for now, and the extraction will be mechanized when they reopen."

His smile is coy, a relieved expression under it. "That's good," he says in a sigh.

"How's your family?" One thing didn't change. I was always so bad at small talk, but with Gale things are still easier.

"They are fine. Rory started to train for the Guard." He rolls his eyes, and I can easily imagine Rory as a miniature of Gale. "Vick discovered a new passion for books. And Posy ..." He trails off, knowing that mentioning Posy will remind me of Prim. It does. "She's wonderful."

"Good." I swallow dryly, trying to run away from Prim's ghost. "And your mother?"

"She's fine. And ... she asked me to send you a hug."

"Say hello to her for me." I look at the view of the Capitol again. We're at the top of one of the buildings in the main avenue. The city glows as if it hadn't been falling apart less than a year ago. It's oddly beautiful.

"Katniss ..."

I close my eyes, sensing the emotion under his apparently casual tone.

"I want you to know that I still want to be your friend." He's careful as he speaks.

I shrug.

"And ..."

I take a deep breath; something inside me is stirring now that he's not even trying to sound casual.

"About whatever is going on between you and Peeta, he'd be stupid to let you go. Trust me, I know that."

My mouth is agape as I look up at him, but he's not looking at me. He's surveying the view, drinking the cool air, and probably trying to slow down his heartbeat.

"I ... Gale ..." Words fail me. But I'm not sure I should talk at all.

"Catnip, I'm fine. Really." He finally meets my eyes. His eyes are bit darker; his smile is a bit fake. "I'm doing fine in Two. The job is great, my family is safe and I'm being able to help Panem. I can't ask for more."

A giggle from the saloon door calls our attention, and we see Johanna—one arm locked with Haymitch and the other holding a half-empty glass—and she beckons to us.

"Shall we?" Gale makes a small bow to me, offering the crook of his arm along with a lopsided smile. I easily accept his offer, and even murmur before we reach the apparently drunken couple. "Maybe you should check the reconstruction for yourself sometime." From the corner of my eye I see his cheek flushing with a heartily smile.

"Maybe I will."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Keep reading!


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve **

Johanna is completely drunk by the time we reach the hotel. During the entire ride back, she blabbered incoherent things and gossip about the Capitol. I really didn't need to know that Enobaria had posed nude in a magazine; or that if it wasn't for Haymitch, Johanna would have killed her right then at the party. I must admit that it was a good evening, even though I missed Annie's company. But she wasn't feeling disposed to go, and the fact that they easily released her from this commitment showed that the Capitol is really changing.

I practically tow Johanna to her room, a mix of anger and amusement flushing me as we step into her room. She has definitely gained weight. I manage to place her on the bed, and she's already drooling when I open the door to my room. I think a little and decide to lock the door connecting our rooms; in this state, who knows what she will think about doing?

The arm that received the shot is tingling, so I decide to take a bubble bath to relax my limbs. The bathtub is amazingly huge, and the flower scent filling the foggy bathroom is overwhelming. I use some products to make bubbles and dive into the tub, leaving just half of my face visible so I can breathe.

My thoughts divert to the events of the night. Gale's smile as he helped me climb the car that would take me back to the hotel was genuine. He is happy for me, and I'm happy for him.

_"... he'd be stupid to let you go. Trust me, I know that."_ His words echo in my mind. Gale did love me, more than I loved him. But it can never happen again, we can barely be friends. Living on different sides of the country will help our friendship, because I won't need to think about him all the time, or the motives why I couldn't face him for months.

I can't stop my thoughts from shifting from Gale to Peeta. I don't know if Peeta would be stupid if he let me go. Maybe that would be the smartest thing he'd ever do. My mother said he's coming for the Rebellion Celebration, so I'm going to see him soon. He could already be in the Capitol and I don't know. I close my eyes thinking how I'd feel miserable again if he was here and didn't come to see me.

I miss him. Not in the way I missed when I first got to Twelve; back then I was barely thinking straight. But now, with new memories of him and our relationship ... I miss him badly. I miss his smile, his laugh, his humor, his sensibility, his kisses, his touches. A warm sensation in my lower belly catches my attention, and I know it has nothing to do with the hot water enclosing my body. With my eyes still closed, I reach a tentative hand to one of my breasts, massaging tenderly. As the image of Peeta is filling my mind, I press harder against my skin, circling my thumb around my peaked nipple. I want Peeta's hand doing this; I want his warm touch over my naked body.

My other hand flows naturally under the water, stopping at the throbbing nub between my thighs. I force my mind to lock on the memory of the feeling of Peeta's hard member through his pants as I start to touch myself; I imagine that bulge doing these same movements. The bathroom is filled with steam and moans as the image of just Peeta's strained shorts is not enough. I picture what is under it, his full male essence, pulsating beneath me, separating my folds and entering without asking for permission.

I gasp shortly and almost choke with the water so close to my nose level when I push two fingers inside. I clear my throat and plunge them further, arching my back to do so. My breathing is heavy as the hand that was kneading my breasts goes down to spread my trembling knees wider, and the sensation of the warm water mixing with my ministrations feels so good. Both my legs are quivering as I curl one finger inside me, hitting a new spot and embracing the electric tingle that travels through my entire body, throwing fuel on my internal fire.

I keep my fingers inside until the apex above claims an undeniable attention. Taking them out, I start hurried, long arcs that go from the throbbing cleft to my entrance, easily moving under the oiled water. Peeta's blue eyes, darkened by desire, are all I can see as I speed up my hands, mumbling his name in a continuous mantra, searching for the release of all the pain, sorrow and anxiety from the past week. The heated sensation is increasing rapidly, and I know I'm moaning out loud now, going for it, claiming it. I want him; I want Peeta here; I want him above me, inside me, over me; his naked body spread over mine, his breathing on my neck, his tongue on my chest, his hands on my butt. I want all of it; I want _him!_

A yell that sounds more like a wail resounds in the tiled bathroom as I finally reach my climax. I let the waves of a powerful orgasm consume me and I sink into the bathtub, my limbs feeling as if they are made of paper. I stay under water until I can't hold my breath anymore, and emerge from the bubbles in another gasp to catch my breath. I need a few minutes to recompose as my pleased body is still slightly trembling.

When I can breathe normally again, I quietly finish my bath. I'm a little ashamed at my outburst. Fortunately, Johanna is probably soundly asleep and wasn't able to hear me. Or I would be listening to a guffaw right now; she wouldn't let this one pass.

The hotel's towel is white and fluffy, feeling like silk on my sensitive skin. I put on a robe with the hotel's logo and open the door, the chilly air from the cooler bedroom making me shiver. Steam flows from the bathroom and I turn the lights on.

I almost fall back into the bathroom when the light fills the room, illuminating the frame sitting on the armchair next to my bed. I hold to the door knob to not literally stumble in my surprise.

"Hi," he says shyly, offering a half-heartened wave.

If I knew Peeta was going to be in my bedroom, I'd be more prepared to respond to him instead of the stutter speech flowing from my mouth.

"Please let me talk." He stands up from the chair, one hand indicating for me to stay quiet. I fidget with the belt of my robe and sit on the bed without meeting his eyes. "Katniss," he starts again, kneeling in front of me, but I notice how he avoids touching me. "I'm sorry. After what happened in your house, when you and Johanna were drunk, I had an episode."

Biting my lips, I gather up the courage to look at his face. He's surprisingly calm.

"I hurt Johanna." He doesn't maintain eye contact with me. The blush in his cheeks is probably from shame. "And ... and part of me wanted to hurt you."

"Peeta ..." I manage my first word. He doesn't let me develop, though.

"I couldn't stay close to you, please know that. And I really need you to respect me when it happens."

I offer him a resigned nod.

"I wanted to see you, but I wasn't ready. I am now." He reaches a hesitant hand to my covered knee, and I shiver at this small touch. His hand has a soft baby skin on one side, probably where he treated his cut here in the Capitol.

"Can you forgive me?" he asks, the calm in his voice failing him as his eyes fight to keep the tears away.

"I'm the one that caused this. I'm the responsible for—"

"Katniss, stop." He takes a deep, shaky breath, closing his eyes for a second before meeting my stare again. "You have to stop with this. Blaming yourself, I mean. Because if you continue with this, you'll always get depressed and desperate at any sight of a problem."

I want to refute it, to argue with him until I can prove that I'm right. But, honestly, I don't think I can. So, this time at least, I let it go.

"I ... I missed you." I confess, avoiding his blue, curious eyes. He blushes ferociously, gripping his hand on my thigh. I'm confused for a moment, but then he stands up and I see he's wearing formal trousers. He notices my questioning look.

"I went to the gala tonight; I needed to be sure that seeing you wouldn't be a trigger," he says with a sheepish smile, "it wasn't," he finishes. "Though seeing Gale with you was kind of annoying."

It's my turn to blush.

"Peeta, Gale and I are just friends. You know that. After ..." My voice falters a little, but I clear my throat and look up at him, "… after Prim, I couldn't even look at him without having a breakdown. We're just friends."

"Yeah, I kind of sensed that." He scratches the back of his neck, trying to disguise a smile.

"Who did you go with?" After all, it was a gala night. You need a pair to go.

His uncontrolled blush comes back to his features. "With your mother."

I raise one eyebrow at him.

"We talked a lot," he continues, not looking at me, "she got the cardkey to your room when we got back to the hotel."

Suddenly it hits me and my face burns with horror and shame—raw, heartless shame.

"How long are you in the bedroom?" My question is hesitant, and my hands are already quivering before he answers.

"A while, I guess."

I close my eyes shut and lie on the bed, willing myself to ask the unpleasant, but necessary second question.

"Was my mother with you?" My words come out slowly, as if I'm going to regret asking them. I don't dare to look at his reaction. He stays quiet for a moment, and I just can't look up at him.

"She ..." he starts, and I feel his weight when he sits on the bed, "… she left after hearing the second 'Peeta' coming from the bathroom."

Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no ... no freaking way that Peeta _and my mother _listed to me while I was masturbating. No way; that's just too much bad luck for one human being.

The silence in the room is palpable as I'm almost whimpering in regret.

"Katniss—"

"No."

"Katniss ..."

"Don't talk, please."

"But Katniss—"

"If you're going to do something, just kill me right now."

And then he laughs, which forces me to kick his shoulder, since I am lying on the bed while he's sitting at the edge of it. He almost falls off with the impact.

"She's fine, really," he says after he catches his breath, "She didn't even kill me and left me alone in your bedroom. It's a good sign, isn't it?"

"Did she say anything?" My eyes are still closed; I can't look at the probably satisfied grin he's wearing now.

"She, hmm ... she said for us to be careful. I think you know what she meant with it."

Yeah, I do know. She doesn't want to be a grandmother so soon. But it's still humiliating.

I need more than ten minutes to recover. When I finally open my eyes, Peeta is beside me, his warm body next to mine.

"I missed you too," he says caressing my cheek, and all of a sudden I realize I'm just wearing a fluffy robe. I look at his face and sigh, seeing the dark circles under his eyes. I know he was having difficult nights in Twelve, and my own tired eyes mirror his, but I still feel sorry for him. It must be horrible to have your worst enemy carved inside your mind. I try to shake this thought away, and glance him up and down. He's not wearing his shoes, just a formal white shirt and black pants. He shifts uncomfortably under my sight. It's when I notice the pillow covering his waist.

Oh, right. He's nineteen-years-old and just heard a girl crying his name while she masturbated. My cheeks flush at the mere thought of it.

"Where is your room?" I just need to change the topic.

"Upstairs, room 423. My luggage is there." He moves his hands to caress my damp hair.

"When did you get here? To the Capitol, I mean."

"This afternoon. Haymitch said Johanna would get you out of the hotel until I got here."

I should have guessed that sudden medical appointment was hiding something else besides Johanna's good intentions.

I take a deep breath, reaching my hand to rest over his. "I'm glad you're fine now."

"Katniss, this ... this can happen again, I don't know." He pulls both our hands to his chest, swiveling so he's lying on his back. His eyes are closed, and he's lightly caressing my hand.

"Just don't disappear again. Let me help you." My voice sounds so small.

"But I could—" He cranes his neck to look at me.

"If we're going to stay together, Peeta"—I move my hand to cup his face—"you need to let me help you." I realize the weight of my words when he props himself on his elbow, sitting up while looking down at me. He breaks our eye contact to look up at the ceiling, and I see he's making a decision. I can't even imagine what can be going on in his mind; if he ever questioned the possibility of us staying together, of opening up to let me fight his fears with him.

He bites his lower lip and looks back at me.

"Are you tired?" he asks. I try to shake my head but my heavy eyelids give me away. "Can I sleep here?"

I actually smack his chest for asking. He laughs heartily and pushes the cover over us. Once we're tucked under the sheets, he unbuttons his shirt and takes it off.

"Katniss?"

I am almost falling asleep when his question pushes me back to reality.

"What?" I ask sleepily.

"Do you really want to stay with me? Like, together, as a couple?"

My head was cozily placed under his chin, but I raise it to look at him. The room is dark since we turned off the lights, and I can't see his face. I hope this was not a marriage proposal, because I'd like to see the man's face when it eventually happened.

"Yeah." My voice sounds husky.

"Okay. Go back to sleep."

I feel his chest expanding and relaxing next to me.

It's harder to fall asleep as the ideas of what "as a couple" can mean keeps playing in my head.

It's still night when I open my eyes again. The room is completely dark and for a moment I panic feeling the strong arm around my waist. Before I can gasp out loud, the events of the previous day flash in my mind. _Peeta_. It's Peeta lying next to me, sound asleep and snoring lightly. I smile to myself, patting his arm to make sure he's real. He is, and we're fine. We're going to be fine. I'm closing my eyes again to resume my interrupted sleep when he shifts next to me, mumbling slightly in his sleep. It's just for a moment, but I feel his erection next to my thin-covered thigh.

I'm not facing him, but I know he's not dreaming; this is very different from the night I caught him clawing the sheets and whispering my name. Peeta is deeply asleep and this hardness next to me is just a normal (I guess) reaction of his body. This happens to boys when they're sleeping, right? I've pretended to not notice it when I slept beside Peeta in the Victory Tour, believing this is just something that happens. Totally normal.

So I believe it's also totally normal _my_ body reacting to this feeling. I take shallow breaths as I try to steady myself. _Get it together, Katniss! You just had a moment to yourself in the bathroom a few hours ago!_ This new pulse between my thighs will just subdue while I keep fighting to go back to sleep.

Peeta moves his hips enough to brush it again on my exposed flesh. I ended up going to bed just in my robe, and I'm completely naked under it. I didn't think it'd be a problem earlier, but as I feel the heat pooling in my inner thigh, I think I should have worn at least some panties. But, no problem, I'll just concentrate harder and sleep.

It takes around fifteen minutes for me to realize that I won't be able to sleep again. I'm fidgeting in the bed, and if I don't stop it soon, I'll probably wake up Peeta. Maybe, _maybe_, if I clamp my legs together, making a small pressure between them, I can give myself a little relief and go to sleep. Just a little bit, moving my hips slowly under the sheets …

I start to buck my hips slightly, contracting my inner muscles in tandem with the throbbing in my core. I really hoped to ease the need growing in my lower belly, but this is not helping. It's actually making me want more, and I need to control my urge to slide a hand inside the robe.

Peeta shifts again and I halt, afraid he noticed my moves. I hear his breath, and the hand that was on my waist grips me ever so lightly. I don't move, waiting for his next move; maybe he's still sleeping.

Buy my own body betrays me, and I can't hold my hips as they thrust on the mattress. My back is to Peeta, so I just hear when he leans closer and hugs me tightly from behind. His hardness presses on my lower back, and, if he hadn't realized that I'm fully awake by now, the small moan that flees me confirms it.

His hand that was on my waist moves to my belly, squeezing my taut muscles there in what appears to me as a silence question. My breath is shallow; does he want to touch me? Another pat on my abdomen. My teeth press hard on my lips and I move one hand to pull his head closer to mine, resting my palm on his nape as he kisses my neck. And then I nod.

Differently from what I was expecting, he moves his hand away from my body. I'm about to ask him what he's doing when I feel the knot on my robe being untied. It's pitch black, there's no light in the room, but I sense his clever fingers opening the silk garment to allow him access. He moans softly under my ear as he touches my bare pelvis, and I can't help but gasp and hold my breath. His hand is extremely warm, like he had just taken it out the oven. He threads his fingers through my dark, coarse hairs, and I release my breath when he lowers them down to fully touch me.

Is this happening? Am I dreaming? I try to understand what is going on, to be sure I'm not day-dreaming in the bathtub again. But it feels real, oh so real as Peeta slips his fingers through my folds, trembling and unsure as he explore the wetness there.

I turn my head to the pillow to moan quietly, overwhelmed by this first touch. I shift uncomfortably, needing to spread my legs to let him feel me completely. Peeta seems to understand it, and makes room for me to turn and lie on my back on the mattress. One of his arms sneaks under my head, making a heated pillow for me. As I rest on his upper arm, he whisper softly to me.

"Is this okay?"

I sense the desire in his voice, and all I want to do now is see his face, how is he looking at me, the shade of his blue eyes as he nudges my cheek with his nose.

"Yes." Maybe the darkness is helping after all, because my blush must be astronomical at my breathless confession. I spread my legs wider as his hand fumbles to continue with his ministrations. We're both quivering as he finds me again, welcoming my gasp with a wet kiss on my neck.

He fumbles a little uncertain between my folds again, and one of my hands meets his over me.

"Here." I crane my neck to speak right next to his ear as my hand guides his inexperienced fingers to my throbbing clit. I nibble his earlobe as I feel his middle finger pressing me. "Right here."

He nods eagerly and starts to move his hand again. I press my head into the soft pillow under his touches, his amazingly good touches, welcoming the sensation bubbling in my stomach and forgetting about trying to stifle my moans. He doesn't make an attempt to run down to my entrance, but I think it's okay for now. I believe we'll have much time to explore our bodies in the future.

My hips thrust against his fingers in their own accord. I try to spread my legs even wider, and graze my knee over his pants, feeling how aroused he is. I'm happy that he's enjoying this too.

"Harder." The word is out of my mouth before I can rethink, and he obeys while nibbling my neck. I feel his fingers moving harder and faster, but still not enough. I buck my hips harder above the bed, meeting his hand in a way he wasn't expecting, because he lets out a small squeak in surprise. "Faster, Peeta, faster …"

My needs are guiding my words, because I honestly can't recognize my tone of voice now. So breathless, so eager, so … _hungry_.

My patience is gone and I wrap my hand over his, helping him match the rhythm that I need.

"Tell me what you're feeling."

Between my moans and the constantly increasing hazy state of my mind, I need a few seconds to fully register his question. Or was it a demand?

"Tell me," he repeats while both our hands move rapidly over my intimacy, the panted weight in his voice matching mine as I answer him.

"Good, you—you feel so _good_, I—" But I can't continue, my mind is focused on my upcoming climax; I need him more, harder, faster.

My grip around his hand tightens, forcing him to slide longer and erratically arc, making me jerk my hips frantically under him. My fingers cut into his wrist while I sense my muscles tensing in every corner of my body, letting out a deep, husky and real wail from my throat and shutting my thighs together to hold his hand in place. I bury my head in his sweaty neck and moan again, my mind in a state of blissfulness. Peeta whispers against my ear, but I can't catch the words. My coherent thought is melting with the pleasure dripping down my inner thigh, incapable of understanding anything now.

I'm panting against his neck when I can comprehend his first words.

"… is it okay? I just—just need it."

I don't really know what he's asking, but I nod under his chin. Honestly, he can ask anything of me right now that I'll willingly accept.

It's just when I feel his hand going between our bodies that I try to fully understand what is going on. I cup his face and feel his jaw tensed, gritted teeth and his elaborated breath against my palm. I look down, but it's all dark, I can't see anything.

"Peeta?" I ask in a small voice, but it's his grunt that makes me realize.

His right arm is moving swiftly, and the arm that was under my neck has a firm grasp on the back of my hair. He's touching himself.

A blush crosses my heated face, and I let my curious hand travel to his belly, feeling it tense under my fingertips. For some reason, I want to be part of it. He falters his excited moves when my tiny hand rests over his. It's me now who makes the silence questions as I pry his gritted fingers open. He lets my hand touch his, hissing against my temple. It's different from I imagined; at the same time his member is hard, I can sense his soft skin, damp from … what, sweat? I run my hesitant hand up and down his shaft, pleased by the way Peeta moans my name while I do it. I stop when I touch his swollen head, feeling a warm moisture seeping from the tip.

He is puffing irregularly as I continue my exploratory touches. I really don't know what to do besides touch it, so I lean closer to kiss his cheek.

"Show me." The request is simple, and Peeta is eager to attend it.

His hard grasp closes around my hand and he moves them together, running all the way down and back up, stopping a little to tease with the tip and back down. He grunts and moans next to me, pushing me closer with his other hand that is lost in my dark hair. Encouraged by his response, I kiss his neck and collarbone and everything I can reach without pulling apart from him.

I can feel his member throbbing under my fingers, hardening even more as our hands move in a furious pace around it. I think he's close.

I sense a vein in his neck pulsating as he grips my hand so strongly that I let out a hiss of pain. But it vanishes quickly as I hear Peeta's deep moan of relief, his muscles tensing along his body and his hand pulling my hair behind me. For a reason I can't quite place, this small pain awakes my own desire for a brief second.

He pulses between our hands and I feel something warm spreading there, a new wave at each pulse. I don't move my hand, since he isn't moving his around mine.

We stay quiet for a minute while he catches his breath. When my hand finally retreats, it's kind of sticky.

"You okay?" he asks in a whisper, caressing my nape.

"Yeah—you?"

He chuckles at my question; I smile in the dark.

I'm wondering how his face will look like when we do it again with the lights on.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I promised you a happier chapter!

For the ones that are disappointed and wanted more _intense scenes_ (I love euphemisms), just wait for the next chapters. But well … what do you think so far?

Special thanks to the betareader: **Project Team Beta**.

Thank you all for reading,

Maia


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: **Let's finally give Katniss the Cinderella night she (kind of) deserves.

And no, I'm not talking about fairytales—if you know what I mean. This basically ended up as just smut … sorry?

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

It feels magical. I think I've never felt it.

The way people look at us, the glint on my red dress matching the light glow of my eyes, how Peeta's red tie matches his stupid red shoes. But it's amazing; the whole evening is amazing.

We wander around the saloon so easily that one may think we're dancing. His hand around my waist feels firm and possessive—helping me out with my high heels—and yet his eyes are calm. They are clear, present and worshiping me. Different eyes adore me tonight, from curious Rebellion heroes to the Capitol's old magnates, but the only pair I'm interested in is the blue one that apparently can't look at anyone else but me. We accept the compliments, thank the well-wishers, ignore the romance-related questions and manage to make this one of the best nights in my life.

Plutarch calls us on the stage to make a speech, and all the guests applaud and raise their glasses when we get in front of the microphone. I'm quiet as a stone when Peeta pushes one errant strand from my intricate braid off my forehead. He motions for me to step aside and I nod happily.

His voice is clear, spreading through the ballroom like melted snow. I don't pay much attention to what he's saying, but to the reactions he's inspiring. As new early spring flowers emerging from beneath the snow, he makes real feelings blossom in the hard Capitol ground. Tearful eyes, breathless sighs, even quiet cheers before he finishes the speech, and finally, the explosion of acclamation when he thanks the audience. His blond hair is finally shorter than it was in Twelve and his tuxedo is so colorless that he could even wear it again outside the Capitol. But not the shoes—I'm burning these ridiculous red shoes as soon as we get home.

Home. Tomorrow we have an interview, and then we'll go home. During these last few days in the Capitol, I experienced the entire scale of feelings from the human nature, starting with cold depression to end with blissful joy. Maybe I am as unstable as Peeta.

The handshake Peeta exchanges with Gale when we're leaving the party makes me hold my breath. They stare into each other's eyes, a silent fight of blue and grey, until Gale's lip curls up just the necessary amount for Peeta to nod. I don't know what kind of message they shared tonight, but it sounds of peace when Gale taps Peeta's back and murmurs something I can't hear. But Peeta laughs, so I'm okay.

The interaction with my mother is a little bit more ... embarrassing. After Peeta came to the Capitol and they found me in my room in a _private moment_, we carefully tiptoed around each other to not actually lock our glances. But since she's leaving tonight, I need to say goodbye. We meet in the Hotel hall; she's going to the train station and Peeta and I just got back from the ball. Her eyes are glistening with pride and tears. She hugs me warmly and kisses my cheeks, like she used to do when I was little.

"Come to Four when you can," she says as we part from our hug. Then she turns to Peeta, her cheek already wet from the tears she tried to hold back. "Both of you."

Peeta is the perfect gentleman, offering her his red handkerchief and guaranteeing our visit in a near future. I'm just thankful she didn't mention anything about the other night.

Nobody asked when Peeta relinquished his bedroom and moved his luggage to mine. Who would anyway? As far as Capitol citizens know, Peeta and I are married by a secret toasting ceremony and already made a baby. Except for Haymitch and Johanna's knowing looks (my mother spared me from this one), no one commented about the fact we are sharing a room. Besides my "big entrance" when Peeta first saw (and heard) me in the Capitol and the dark encounter between tangled sheets in the same night, we didn't talk or do anything sexual. I believe that we needed a night like today's evening to settle our feelings and uncertainties.

Well, the gala is over. We'll be back to Twelve on the afternoon train. My feelings are well settled and a few uncertainties are gone.

But my heart still races like a desperate tribute when Peeta locks the door behind us, sighing and leaning his head on the doorframe.

"I'm so glad it's over," he says in an exasperated breath, still facing the white, wooden door.

Is it? So why am I still nervous about tonight?

"You were great," I say while freeing my ears from the elaborate set of earrings. "Your speech, I mean. It was beautiful." I feel his eyes on me as I place the earrings on the table next to the armchair. I know he's still looking as I raise my hands to my head to start to decipher how I will untangle my braid. My mostly covered back is facing him; the dress cut is high, covering most of my scars, leaving a small part of natural skin free, where the fire didn't touch. It's right there that I sense his first kiss.

I hold my breath until his warm lips leave my skin.

"Let me help you with that." His voice brushes my ear, his hands running up from my lower back until they rest above mine on my head. My gasp is small but audible at his touches. I let my arms fall as he deals with my braid. He delicately disarranges it, one piece at a time, massaging my neck while winding my free dark curls. "I love your hair like this," he whispers softly, kissing my nape. From there to my toes I feel goose bumps, closing my eyes in the good sensation of his lips on me.

Maybe I know why I'm still nervous.

His hands sneak to my stomach and I contract my abdomen instinctively. Peeta laughs in a husky voice at this, amused by my reaction. Soon I relax, letting him explore my waist and abs. His hands hesitate right below my breasts, which are free from any undergarment under my dress. "Is this okay?" he asks softly, his thumb passing lightly under the curve of my left breast. We're not past the point where one doesn't need to ask permission to touch the other … but I think we'll get there someday.

"Yes." I'm almost ashamed at how breathless I sound, but that feeling definitely disappears when his right hand fully cups my breast, a firm grasp that I wasn't really expecting. He abruptly releases it at my gasped reaction, but my own hand that was idly on my side closes above his, encouraging him. "It's okay." I turn my head to meet his lips, resting my back against his broad chest for support as he eagerly resumes his ministrations on my chest. We moan in each other's mouth at every sway of his thumb, every twitch of his fingers. I move a hand to his thigh, clawing at the silky cloth of his pants. He thrusts his hips in response, hitting my lower back for a second, but long enough for me to feel his arousal.

He takes a sharp breath and moves his hands to my back again, caressing the smooth material and stopping right above the almost invisible zipper. Before he can ask I nod eagerly, and he undoes the zipper that runs the entire extension of my back.

I can't see his face, and he has stopped moving, so I peel the dress off one arm and then the other. I clutch the garment to my chest; he's still quiet.

"Peeta?" I tentatively ask as I finally turn to him.

He's completely flushed and his mouth is agape, as if he's shocked at me. I look down instantaneously, holding the garment tighter over my breasts. His hand rests on my face before he speaks. "Can I?"

And just when I look at him I see his other hand hovering over my shoulder, in an awkward attempt to hug me. I think I nod, because in the next moment his strong arms are surrounding me, hugging me close in an intimate embrace. He just holds me for a minute, and I can't hold him back, because if I do, the upper part of my dress will fall and my breasts will be exposed. Well, maybe it is his plan, after all.

When he lets me go, he reaches down to kiss me, his tongue licking its way into my mouth and pressing hard to tease my own. I relax under the touch, using just one hand to hold my dress as the other threads into his blond hair. He parts for air and takes a step back, holding my free hand in his.

"If you don't—oh." He starts what would be an excuse, but my not-so-subtle movement to let my dress fall shuts him up. Well, except for the "oh" part.

My cheeks burn while he gawks at me, both his hands suddenly lifeless as he just stares.

"Oh," he says again, his eyes lost in the mixture of scars and skin, pebbled nipples and shivers that are my breasts right now. I need to concentrate to push aside the temptation to cross my arms, and when he opens his mouth to speak again, it's just to repeat the same "oh." I hope I didn't trigger anything.

Finally, with a last "oh," he reaches a hand to my waist and pushes me into a passionate kiss. I moan quietly as my nipples brush the cotton of his shirt, and he deepens the kiss, hearing me. He doesn't ask for permission this time as both his hands travel up to my chest, kneading hesitantly at the soft flesh. I moan loudly against his neck as his thumbs repeat their attentions from before, but the flesh to flesh contact is much more intense.

"We should ... the bed ..." I manage to say between the kisses, and I need to actually poke Peeta to make him stop touching me and understand my request.

"Right." He picks me up ungracefully and places me on the bed. After my shy nod, he pushes the entire dress off my body. I'm just a tiny frame on the huge bed, protected only by my burgundy panties.

I can't suppress the urge to conceal myself this time, raising one hand to cover my nipples and crossing my legs. I guess Peeta can see my embarrassment.

"Don't—you're beautiful," he says in a hurry, lying at my side. His shaking palm runs my body up and down. I try a tentative hand at the collar of his shirt.

"I think you should take your—"

But before I can finish my request, Peeta understands it and sits up rapidly on the bed, kicking off his shoes and tugging his shirt over his head. His pants fall on the puddle of clothes next to the bed a second later, and he lies next to me again, in the same position from before, but now wearing only his boxers.

"—clothes off." I finish the phrase just to laugh at his eagerness. He blushes, but timidly laughs along with me, which helps us both with the tension.

I take my time to explore his chest, feeling the downy hairs curling under my touch, his shiver as I tickle his abs and his sudden inhalation when I let my finger touch the waistband of his boxers. I smile at this, a mischievous grin of hunger and want. He smiles back and kisses me, resting his body weight on his elbows as he places his good leg over my crotch. He's still kissing me when he moves his leg, pressuring the increasing heat there. My groan is muffled by his mouth, and he moves his head to kiss my neck.

"If you want me stop, just ask, okay?" he whispers to me, and I nod. I know. I know that, no matter how much Peeta wants this, he'd stop it if I asked. I trust him to. But this has to be a mutual deal.

"You too," I whisper between shorts intakes of breath. I feel his head nodding under my chin as he's kissing my collarbone and moving further down. I'm about to ask when I feel his hot, wet lips over my hardened nipple. In an involuntary move, I press my hips closer to his thigh, wanting the pressure over my throbbing core to increase. My fingers are lost in his hair, scratching his scalp as he continues to play with my breasts, glancing up at me from time to time to see my reaction. I always try to nod in approval, but by the time he uses his teeth on me, just slightly enough to enkindle my growing desire, I shut my eyes to enjoy the feeling and moan for him.

I open them wide when I feel the wetness of his tongue venturing even further, contouring my flat belly muscles. He senses my discomfort and raises his blushed face to lock his now dark, longing blue eyes with mine.

"Are you okay with this?" he asks in a panted voice.

I don't know exactly what is he asking. Am I okay with him kissing me? Am I okay with him kissing my breasts? I definitely am with—

"Johanna told me to do this with you first. She, she said girls like it." His hands are holding my hips firmly, unmoving while they wait for my signal to ... to what? I swallow my pride and dare to ask.

"Do what?"

Peeta blushes deeper and clears his throat. I'm not sure if he's trying to disguise a laugh ... if he is, I'm totally getting up from this bed.

"Kiss you." He locks his glance with mine once more, and there is nothing funny in the predatory way he searches my body, staying fixed on my eyes for a moment and then resting his sight over my dampening panties. "… there." He motions with his chin, and I need to bite my lips not to groan.

Oh. That could be interesting.

"'kay," I say as I tilt my head back on the pillow.

He traces a finger over my panties, and I need to take a deep breath not to beg him to push it. With my head still nested on the pillow, I help him with my underwear, kicking it off my legs in a swift move.

"Oh."

And there's Peeta's "oh" again. My eyes are closed because I don't know if I can look at him right now, while he is looking at me. I mean, _at me_. When he touched me the other night, he didn't see anything. Does he think it's strange? Too brown? Too wet? Because I'm sure my panties were embarrassingly wet before I removed them. I'm gathering the courage to look down at him when I feel his hot breath right over my clit. Just biting my lips is not enough to hold down the moan that forms in the deep of my throat. I think it's the best sensation I've ever felt until his tongue gives me a curious lick.

"Ooh ..." The moan finally escapes me.

Now I understand his earlier "oh."

His tongue is hesitant, but goes for another lick and I buck my hips slightly off the bed, subconsciously pushing for more. When his nose touches my nub in the movement, I don't even regret it when I buck against him again.

One strong hand rests firmly over my abdomen, holding me in place.

"Sorry..." I'm breathless and honestly, I'm not really sorry.

I feel his breath again, and open my eyes to try to see him. Under the mess of his blond curls, his eyes are closed, sniffing. Oh my, he's _smelling me_. And I don't know if I'm normal to think that it looks incredibly hot.

My head hits hard on the pillow when his tongue is more forceful this time, licking its way from the apex of my clit to my dripping entrance. It fumbles a little without a certain direction and I gently push his forehead to force him to look up at me.

His mouth is wet, and I know that's not just saliva. His eyes are hazy with the same gleam from before.

"What?" he asks eagerly.

"Here." I guide my forefinger to the specific point of my pleasure. "Focus here, okay?"

He gently bites my finger and pushes it aside with his tongue. He licks it entirely before nodding. "Okay."

"Oh," I gasp out when his tongue meets my throbbing clitoris in a wet encounter. And my coherent thoughts are gone; my head twists in a frenzy on the now damp pillow. Peeta's hand is having a hard time keeping my body on the mattress, and is it me making all this noise?

No, it's not. Peeta is moaning against my core too, accompanying me in this excited symphony.

His tongue feels great, but I need more to reach my climax. I need more pressure, more friction, more—

"Harder, Peeta," I cry for him, begging actually. "Press harder—_ngh_!"

Yeah, he got it, more pressure and more friction. As my breaths quicken, his grip on my hips gets tighter, as if he's feeling I'm close.

It hits me harder than the other night, a stronger pleasure than I ever gave myself. I let out an incoherent yell of relief as my trembling body accepts the clashing wave of my orgasm. My legs clamp shut, locking Peeta's head in place in an attempt to make this moment last longer. I writhe on the bed, shifting my body to the side, unconsciously twisting Peeta's neck in the movement.

It's his muffled grunt that brings me back to reality.

"Sorry!" I say in a panted voice, releasing his head from my grip. But when he looks up at me, he's wearing the most rewarding smile I've ever seen. I wonder if he looked like this the night he touched me in the dark.

"You okay?" He lies down beside me, one hand still on my belly. I'm still breathing heavily when I nod.

He holds me close as I catch my breath, nudging his nose on my neck each time my chest rises for air. When I finally calm myself and look up at him again—squinting my eyes to adjust to the weak light from the table lamp—I can see his satisfied smirk, but his eyes are still as dark with desire as before.

"We're going home tomorrow." I don't know why I'm saying this, but it gives me a sense of peace.

"Yeah." He caresses a piece of hair that clings to my damp cheek. "Katniss …"

"Hmm?" I close my eyes to focus on the feeling of his hand on me.

"It won't be easy. But I want to do it."

I frown, opening my eyes and turning to him. His smirk is gone, and his pupils have dwindled a little, showing more of his blue iris.

"What?" I ask softly, touching one finger to his wet lips.

"Us. I want to be with you." A hint of shame crosses his face. I hate it. If he's thinking about our last argument and the possibility of it in the future, I already know it can happen. I know it won't be easy. Actually, I'm sure it'll be like hell sometimes. But I also want to try it; I want to be with him. Wanting to reassure him of that, I search for his mouth to kiss him vividly.

It takes a second, but he responds it, opening his mouth to me. It's weird; I think I can taste myself on him. An earthy savor mixed with the known sweetness of his mouth. I bite his lower lip, the taste arousing me somehow.

He runs his hands to my shoulders, pushing me back to the pillow. I move with him, spreading my legs to let him lean on me, though most of his weight is supported by his elbows at my side. I feel his hand leaving my shoulder to fumble with his boxers, lowering them to his thighs. My curious eyes dart down to look at him, but I can't quite see clearly while his mouth is so occupied kissing my neck. He shifts his prosthetic leg awkwardly while he frees himself from his undergarment, and the weight of the moment starts to hit me. Are we going to have sex here? Like, now? Right _now_?

I think Peeta senses my nervousness in my trembling lips and wide eyes. He opens his mouth to speak but doesn't form a coherent sentence. Instead, he rolls to the side, lying on his shoulder and resting a hand on my chin, the other discreetly covering his erection.

"We don't need to do anything, really."

"It's not that," I say, turning to look at him and making an inhuman effort to not stare dumbly at his crotch.

It's true. The problem is not the sex, our intimacy. At least I don't think so. But as I look around the spotless room, the embroiled wood in the details of the furniture, the artificial scent of flowers… I know what is bothering me.

"Not here." I don't meet his eyes while I confess. "Not in the Capitol."

His hand that was caressing my chin goes down to massage my waist. He pulls me lightly into an embrace. That's when I know he understands.

When I feel both of his hands on my back I can't keep my eyes from darting down at his groin again. He obviously notices my stare and blushes, and I flush with him when his penis twitches under my gaze.

"I,I kind of—" He starts what I fear will be an apology and I can't listen to it right now. We don't need to have sex, but we can do what we did the other night. And with the lights on it'll be much more … interesting? Intense? I kiss him again and this time he doesn't hesitate to respond.

"Show me again." I use my hand to guide him on his back, and I sit up to kneel next to him. We both feel an uneasy moment in the air as he adjusts the pillow under him, pushing his hip closer to me. And I just stare, both my hands on my bare thighs.

I remember a few times when patients were brought to my mother and she had to take their clothes off. Sometimes they were men, and I maybe stole one or two glances at their naked bodies. But seeing a flaccid penis from a weak, dying man is totally different from this.

It's the first time I'm seeing Peeta completely naked. I know he is blushing and I feel his intense gaze on me as I continue to look at him, studying his member. I don't know about sizes, really, I can't judge anything, but the idea of _that _inside me makes a shiver run down my spine. I look at my fingers, noticing the absurd difference in the width of them compared to that. I swallow the lump in my dry throat before facing him again.

His dark gaze is back, and he's dividing his attention between my eyes and my still exposed chest. He's flushed, but I don't think it's from embarrassment. It seems he is … enjoying watching me watch him. Huh. Curious.

"Here." He brings me back from my reverie and offers his hand to me. I take it and he interlaces our fingers before guiding them to his hot, tender flesh. It feels like it did the other time, the dichotomy of softness and hardness in just one thing. He lets out a controlled, smooth breath as I feel him entirely, barely covering it with my hand. The head is red and looks angry, and he shifts lightly under my explorative touch on the seeping slit. Peeta's grip tightens around my fingers, but he doesn't move it. I tilt my head to observe him, seeing how hard he's biting on his lips, his eyes shut tightly and his neck stretched to the side.

The scene is incredibly hot and I start to feel the pooling wetness between my thighs. But I force myself to concentrate on my hands and focus—this is Peeta's moment.

Though the idea that we could share this moment vaguely crosses my mind.

"Do you have a—a moisturizing cream or, or …" Peeta's voice is sharp, and he purses his lips as I use my thumb to play with his head again. I release him, sensing my fingers hot where they touched his flesh.

Why does he need a cream?

"There's one in the bathroom." I feel incredible awkward as I, naked and completely sweaty, get off from the bed and go to the bathroom on my lightly wobbling legs, retrieving the small pink bottle from one of the drawers at the sink. As I walk back to the bed, Peeta is clutching the sheets over the mattress, his gaze flickering between my waist and chest. He doesn't even try to disguise he's not looking at my face, barely blinking as he licks his lips.

I resume my earlier position next to him, kneeling beside his waist. His prosthetic leg is folded, maybe in an unintentional attempt to cover himself. There's no point in it, really. I bluntly hand him the bottle, but he reaches for my hand instead, pulling me in a surprisingly soft kiss.

"What do you …" I start to say when we pull apart, idly playing with the bottle's lid.

"Put some in your hand." His voice is a whisper, and his hand releases me to claw the sheets again. I sense he's eager to watch me doing whatever I'll do with this cream.

I squeeze the pink lotion on my palm, still feeling a bit silly. Peeta nods, as if I did the most difficult task he has ever asked of me.

I'm about to ask what I'll do now when he reaches for my hand again, guiding it to cup him fully, moisturizing his length completely. My hand slides easily around him; the cream works as a lubricant. Like the grease I sometimes use on my bow. Though this is giving me a reaction totally different from just greasing arrows and bows.

"How—" Before I can finish my question, Peeta chimes in.

"Do whatever feels natural." He locks his eyes with me, but they keep shutting beyond his control.

_Whatever feels natural? _The cream smells like strawberry. Biting it would feel natural? I don't think so …

As if sensing my dilemma, Peeta helps me.

"You can start slow and then speed up."

Okay, here we go.

By the time we finally lie on the bed with the intention to sleep, we're both exhausted and slick from … different body fluids. Peeta coaxes me to take a shower, practically carrying me, and when we are fresh and clean, ready to sleep, we hear a barely disguised laugh and Johanna's voice though the door connecting our rooms.

_"Finally going to sleep, sex-bunnies? Holy shit, you two should be more quiet in a fucking hotel!"_

My eyes open in alarm, and I turn to Peeta with what must look like a desperate expression. He chuckles lightly, obviously not taking Johanna's insult personally.

"I know you liked it, Jo!" he suddenly shouts.

"Peeta!" I squeeze his hand between us.

The guffaw echoes loudly from her room while she listens to our remarks.

_"I really want to see your face now, Mockingjay."_

"She's beautiful!" Peeta shouts again in the direction of the door.

"Shut up, Peeta!" I smack his arm that is cozily around me and he grimaces a little.

I just know I'm going to hear about it tomorrow.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Yeah, this chapter was basically smut … I normally don't do that. My first PWP story was "Modern Art" (a _Hunger Games_ one-shot AU, if you're interested), and I liked writing it. It is a humor one-shot, and this chapter had this romance/drama thing that _this_ story asked for. And since I thought that at least a few of you were waiting for some Katniss/Peeta smut, I felt it was okay to write this chapter.

The plot will continue to flow in the next chapters. We'll be back at District Twelve and maybe have a … toasting ceremony? Actual sex? Fluffy scenes? More drama? And of course, my always present touch of humor.

Thank you all for the amazing reviews, follows and favorites!

Special thanks to the betareader: **Project Team Beta**.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen **

It doesn't matter how many times I listen Peeta give a speech. It always makes me wonder how good he is at dealing with people. Or maybe how good he is at lying.

We are scheduled for an early interview in the hotel lobby. After being prepared by a random prep team to disguise our faces marked from exhaustion—we don't enter in details about why we didn't sleep enough—we are interviewed by a young man. He doesn't remind me of Caesar; he's twenty years younger and not surgically transformed. But when the interview starts, I see that he has the same enchanting way in dealing with the questions, always wanting to make us comfortable. Only Peeta tops him with his charming replies.

Thankfully for me—and for the sake of the interview—I'm left alone for most of it. I am perfectly fine, in my beauty-zero style and long-sleeved garment, just watching as Peeta answers everything they want to know about District Twelve and our relationship. When the interviewer asks about a wedding ceremony, Peeta politely says that we prefer to be discreet and recluse, not even giving a hint if it already happened or not. When the green-haired man asks about children, I choke so hard that he has to repeat the question. But, as always, Peeta is flawless and answers that we're still too young to think about it. I hope I can disguise my grimace at the mention of "still too young", because honestly, I'm never having kids.

After our interview, we go back to the train station. Johanna will travel with us until District Eight, where she'll part ways to District Seven.

I'm relieved when I enter the locomotive, hoping that it'll be years before I have to come back to the Capitol. Actually, I hope I'll never see these colorful buildings again. Haymitch mumbles some kind of excuse and heads for his private compartment. He probably didn't sleep at all and will be out most of the trip. Johanna joins Peeta and me for an early lunch. I can't quite read her expression, but it's clear that she'll tease us about last night. She's wearing a faint smirk as she fills her glass with a red juice, exchanging knowing smiles with Peeta. I narrow my eyes at both of them, but Peeta is apparently unaware—or he simply doesn't care—about Johanna's clear intentions. I try to ignore her as I reach for the rolls in the middle of the table.

"Hey, Katniss?" she asks nonchalantly, taking small sips from her beverage. Chewing a cinnamon roll, I glance sideways at her.

"What?" I ask when she just stares at me before grinning widely. Peeta is silent as his eyes dart between Jo and me.

"Can you answer the question about Peeta's penis now?"

My eyes go wide and I have to try really hard not to spit the roll. After a few coughs, I manage to look up at her, blushing furiously as she gulps her juice.

"What the hell, Jo!" I squeak in a higher octave than usual. When I glance at Peeta asking for help, I can see he's making an enormous effort not to burst out laughing. It makes me want to yell at him too.

"That's what her face looked like?" Johanna turns to Peeta, who muffled a laugh with a ridiculously loud sniff.

"Yep," he says between pursed lips, avoiding my inquiring eyes.

Wait a minute. She's not serious. She's just messing with me, and not even—

"See you around, Mockingjay." Johanna waves good-bye before disappearing from the restaurant car, carrying another glass of juice and a chocolate roll in her hand.

Since she's gone, I focus my anger on the only person left.

"What was that about?" My teeth are gritted as I finally lock my eyes with Peeta's.

"She's just being Johanna, Katniss. Forget it." He tries to hold my hand, but I slap his palm.

"I don't like it when you talk about this _stuff _with her …" I know I'm not making a lot of sense since I was the one that invited Johanna to District Twelve to talk exactly about this kind of … stuff.

"You didn't complain last night about her advice, did you?" His shy appearance is gone as he mimics Johanna's smirk and winks at me. I deviate my eyes from his playfulness, hoping my loose hair will cover my blush. Since when is Peeta forward to talk about this? Oh, right … since last night.

I forget about lunch and get up to go to my compartment. It's technically Peeta's room too, but he knows better than to follow me when I'm scowling. When I pass by Johanna's private room, she suddenly opens the door, looking a bit surprised when she sees me, but her astonished expression soon melts into a smug one.

"What?" I deadpan before she can elaborate another way to make fun of me.

"Penis."

I open my mouth to reply, but no words come out, just an indignant snort.

"Works every time …" she mumbles to herself before closing the sliding door. Damn you, Johanna!

The rest of the trip shifts between pleasant conversations and humiliating jokes. Well, not for Peeta, who seems very comfortable when Johanna teases him. Around ten at night, Johanna changes trains at District Eight station to head to her home district. When Peeta crawls into bed, I'm already half asleep. Or at least I want him to think I'm half asleep.

"Katniss?" he asks softly, resting one hand on my shoulder. I don't answer. "She was just kidding, you know that. She's happy for us." I can hear his smile as he lies next to me, sighing deeply. "Sorry."

At his confession, I turn to face him. He's already in his pajamas, one hand still on my shoulder and the other over his flat stomach.

"I just got carried away, I guess. I am happy with what happened between us," he says with a glint in his eyes.

I can't resist his crooked smile; I reach for him and lay my head over his covered chest.

"I'm happy too." I admit quietly. "But please, stop doing that."

"What?"

"Teasing me. I feel stupid enough without you guys pointing that out."

We stay silent for a moment, letting the smooth rocking of the train lull us.

"Are you tired?" The readiness of his voice makes my eyes open, wondering what he's trying to ask.

"Yeah," I say against his chest, nudging his soft t-shirt with my nose.

"Really tired?"

"Yes." I think he notices when I smile.

"Really, really tired?" His fingers start to make lazy circles on my butt cheek.

"Do you really think that just one simple apology is going to be enough?" I trace my forefinger from his chest to the waistband of his flannel pants, feeling the rough seam under my fingertips and not venturing my fingers any forward. "No way," I conclude, moving my hand away from him for good measure.

"I was thinking about something else, too." His palm that was on my butt grabs it firmly and forces my body to turn so that I'm lying on my back and he's on top of me. I try to fake an expressionless reply.

"And what would that be?"

He smirks and releases me, one hand cupping his chin. "Nothing important, since you're so tired."

I literally roll my eyes at him.

"But …" he starts again, placing both hands beside my shoulders and lowering his head so he can whisper next to my ear. "It involved my tongue and a very satisfied version of yourself."

Suddenly I'm not so tired.

* * *

It takes me halfway through summer to finally move to Peeta's house completely. The weeks pass really fast, and between my constant trips to the woods, newcomers in the District and a lot of restless nights—no complaints about those, though—it takes me a while to pack my things. And also I'm a bit lazy. But Haymitch's recent hobby in raising geese helps me with the decision; after all, Peeta's house is farther away from the loud birds.

Buttercup enjoys having a house to himself, but soon new families will be occupying the Victor's Village. With the Justice Building back on track, they are selecting the new families to move here in a few months. I'm not really comfortable with the idea of having new neighbors, but Peeta says that everything will be fine. I wonder how it'll be fine when my neighbors wake up from my desperate screams in the middle of the night. Maybe that's why nobody has moved here yet.

Peeta and I are learning how to live together each day. It turns out that both of us are very stubborn. But we are managing to make it work out okay. When I wake up screaming from long-dead fears, he's there. When he crashes down in the emotional whirl that are his episodes, I do my best to help him. My nightmares and his episodes are getting less intense, and we sometimes say to each other that maybe they will go away. Though none of us have the courage to admit that's a lie.

The moments we share on our bed are growing in intensity and frequency, principally because it's summer and it's better to sleep naked anyway. But we haven't come to actual sex yet. I mean, not the main event of it. I think Peeta is waiting for some kind of sign from me, because he never pushes it. He never asks or forces me into anything; he always waits for my nod or verbal permission to take things to the next level. I can feel he wants more, maybe needs more from me, but I just can't offer it. I thought that after oral sex it'd be easier for me to let it happen, but apparently nothing is easy for me. We'll come to it, eventually. I guess that it's normal to take things like this … and if it's not normal for most young woman, well, it's just another way that I'm a freak.

Peeta didn't lie when he said we'd plan to visit my mom. I think they already set a date, but they won't tell me. Maybe in the autumn, when the weather is better.

Delly comes back to District Twelve by the end of summer. She met a very kind and sympathetic man in Thirteen, and they plan to get married soon. I try very hard to ignore Peeta's big smile when she tells him that the Justice Building is printing wedding certificates and even toasting papers, the one you sign during the toasting ceremony. She politely invites us to her wedding. She wants to get married under some tree with orange leaves in the autumn. I think it doesn't matter the season when you get married, right? Though a toasting in the spring does sound like a beautiful idea …

But autumn is nice too. It's a good season for hunting because the prey is out of their dens most of the time to collect food for the winter.

One day I get home from the woods and hear Peeta's hushed voice on the phone. I cross the living room carefully, dropping my game bag on the kitchen table before tiptoeing to the hall to listen to him. He muffles a few laughs and continues to speak in a small voice, and I wonder with whom he's talking. When he suddenly turns and sees me, his eyebrows almost hit his hairline in surprise. He blabs a good-bye to the phone and hangs it up. By the time he's facing me, my arms are crossed over my chest and I have one eyebrow raised.

"Hey there." He smiles widely and pecks my cheek, already heading to the kitchen, completely ignoring my curiosity.

"Who was that?"

"On the phone?" He glances back at me, a fake expression of confusion on his features. At least I think it's fake.

"Yeah," I say matter-of-factly, following him to the kitchen. My game bag, that actually has only herbs today, is lying on the table and he picks it up.

"Nobody important." He grabs the herbs and moves to the sink, turning the faucet on to wash the greens.

Of course this just makes me even more curious.

"Who was it, Peeta?" I try my best at the puppy-eyes look when he turns to me. He sighs heavily, letting a small chuckle escape him.

"It was Johanna." By my frown, he knows that's not enough of an explanation. "She just wanted to know how things are."

"What kind of things?" I don't know what these two were discussing, but when Peeta tries to hide something it usually ends with me being humiliated. Or extremely satisfied.

"Nothing important, really. You know Johanna." He rolls his eyes at me before opening the fridge to store a few of the herbs. I'm about to try to extract more information when he speaks again. "Delly also called. Her wedding is in a couple of weeks. I thought we should order a gift from the Capitol."

The talk about marriage is enough to make me end this conversation as soon as possible, forgetting anything related to my earlier curiosity.

"Yeah, you can choose something," I say while turning around, heading to our room.

"Maybe something for the house. Like a new oven or a couch. What do you think?" His question makes me halt under the door, forcing myself to face him.

"I think you are better at selecting ovens." I try a smile. "By the way, we're out of cheese buns."

He winks back at me and moves for the pantry. "I can fix that."

As I climb the stairs, I wonder why this wedding talk is bothering me so much. When a hint of pain sneaks to my heart like a suffocating vine, I think I know what is happening.

I lock the bathroom door to cry alone in the shower.

* * *

Delly is always gracious and delicate. But she's astonishingly beautiful in her wedding gown; it was obviously made in the Capitol, or at least it has the Capitol's touch of luxury. Maybe it'd be disharmonious with District Twelve, but the new salon is decorated with compatible fanciness. Who would say that District Twelve could be so ornate? It's just another sign that we are living in a different time.

While Peeta and I watch the charm toasting ceremony—with an excess of tears from Delly's part—I'm thankful that he insisted that I should use one of the Cinna's dresses. I don't know if it'd be respectful if I had come with my hunting boots, which was my original plan.

The dinner after the party is too fancy, and neither Peeta nor I are willing to stay in another gala. Or kind of gala, since the old traditions are making an appearance on the dance floor. He doesn't even ask if I want to dance, because he knows I'm not ready for it yet. That was something I used to do with Prim.

Prim. During the entire ceremony, I couldn't shake her memory away. She'd look wonderful in that dress, her blonde curls dancing around her shoulders just like Delly's do during her first dance with her husband. Prim deserved a night like this, a dream and a promise of a decent future.

I was able to avoid any public break down or tears, and when we get home my makeup is perfectly in place. I don't know if Peeta noticed anything different in my actions, but I tried really hard not to let my emotions show during the evening.

"That was great," he says while loosening his tie, kicking off his shoes to lie on our couch. "Delly was very beautiful."

"Yeah." That's the best answer I can conjecture without deviating my thoughts back to Prim.

"And her husband was so tan! I guess he's enjoying being out of that hole." He motions for me to sit next to him. I take off my sandals—the dress is one thing, but he could never convince me to wear high heels—and lie on his chest, placing one hand over his collarbone. "Did you like the party?"

I can hear his voice resonating in his lungs as I rest my head on his shirt.

"It was very beautiful."

"Do you …"

I feel his hand fidgeting with my hair as he takes a deep breath. "Do you want a party like that someday?"

I was afraid this conversation would turn to this.

"I don't know." I close my eyes to not see his reaction. "I don't think so, honestly."

"And why not? Too many guests?"

"Yeah." Though I know that's not the problem. Maybe I need to talk to him about it. "Actually, no, it's not that."

"What?" It seems he is daydreaming while I am thinking about a better response.

"I don't want a party like that because I … I don't want to get married."

I fist my hands as if preparing for an argument, though my eyes remain closed. I'm afraid to look at Peeta. His hand continues to steadily play with my loose hair, as if I hadn't just crushed any of his expectations. After what feels like hours of silence, he speaks in a low voice.

"Is it because of me?" His hand is still lost in my hair. I don't know if he's trying not to cry.

And the worst thing is that I don't know how to answer him. No, it's not about him. But I also can't quite place the real reason why I don't want to get married. It feels like something I was not supposed to do. Like any of this belonged to me. Like I'm stealing it from someone better than me.

"Are you afraid I will get crazy or dangerous?"

Now I'm sure that he's trying not to cry. I didn't want this; that's not the reason! Why can't I just put a finger on it and translate it to words?

"No," I finally say. "It's not that."

"Because I can, you know." He laughs nervously.

"I just …" I get up from the couch, still too coward to look at him. "I just need to sleep."

When I'm halfway up the stairs, I hear his voice again. But now they don't have any hint of tears.

"What are you saying, Katniss?" His words are molded by coldness and anger. "I thought you wanted to be with me."

"That's not the problem!" How can he say that? We already talked about it; I want to be with him! Does he need a ring to prove it? "I just, I just—"

"You just what?" He sits straight on the sofa and takes off his loosened tie. "Just living together is enough for you. Okay, I get it. But what if I want something else? We live together, we sleep together … marriage would be the next step. Unless you're not sure about us."

"That's not it!" I say each word with an exaggerated movement of my hand, trying to emphasize my point.

"So what? What is it?"

"Please, just stop."

"No, you stop." He gets up and starts to walk in my direction. "I love you. Isn't that enough for you?" His frown is so genuine that it breaks my heart. His tone has changed from anger to hurt again. As I feel the tears blurring my vision, I know I have to try to explain myself to him.

"All of this …" I open my arms to point at our house. "This house, our relationship …" I point from me to him, not meeting his eyes once. "This was not supposed to be mine."

He is obviously confused. I should know he'd never understand.

"I mean …" I take a deep breath to try to calm myself. "I was not the one who was supposed to have a handsome town boyfriend or a big fancy house or a beautiful wedding ceremony!" As I feared, the anger is starting to take the pain's place in my heart.

"You're not making any sense, Katniss." Peeta is close to me now and tries to reach for my hand. I take a step back.

"I stole everything. This is not mine." I'm absolutely sure I'm not making any sense; Peeta's comment is completely unnecessary. But maybe I don't want to make sense. At least, not for him.

I realize my hands are shaking when he finally catches up with me at the top of the stairs, trying to hug me.

"Talk to me. Don't hide." He wants to look me in the eyes, but mine are cast down to the floor, the tears running free as I suppress a sob.

"I can't."

"You should try …" One of his hands cups my chin, and he tries to make me look up at him. I shake my head and keep staring down.

"Don't you think I try?" The renewed anger encourages me to meet his eyes. Under the hall's light, his eyes are darker.

"I know you do. I'm just—"

"None of this was supposed to be mine! Don't you see? I stole everything from her!" I storm to our room, not giving Peeta a second chance to follow me. His bad leg slows him down enough for me to lock the door.

As soon as the wooden latch clicks, I rest my back on the door and slide down, surrendering to my sobs and tears.

"Katniss, open this door!" He knocks forcefully, attacking the doorknob.

He'll never understand.

"Please, open this door!" His voice is muffled by the thick wood.

He'll never understand that I'm not the right Everdeen to live this life.

She deserved better; she was better than me.

Desperate to run away from Primrose's ghost, I stumble to the dresser, digging in Peeta's drawer. I know he keeps his sleeping pills in here. I find them behind some socks and swallow three of them.

With the sounds of Peeta's punches on the door, I surrender into a blank sleep.

* * *

The first thing I see when I open my eyes are swollen knuckles and a pale pair of hands rubbing themselves in a rhythmic, nervous manner. I try to open my mouth to speak, but my tongue feels like sandpaper. I open and close my mouth to try to get rid of the sensation that I have a cotton ball in my throat. It doesn't really help.

I shake my head and rub my eyes. Before I open them again, I feel a warmness on my cheek.

"Can you hear me?"

Peeta's voice is calm and soft, so different from the last time I heard him, yelling through our wooden door.

"Katniss, can you hear me?" His hand leaves my cheek to touch my chin, and I look up at him. His face is marked by sleeplessness, dark circles under his pale blue eyes. I just nod. "Here." He grabs a glass of water that was on the nightstand and hands it to me. I chug it in two large gulps.

After placing the glass back on the nightstand, he takes a deep breath. "Are you okay?" he asks while his hand moves back to my cheek. I nod again. "You slept for a couple of days. It sometimes happens when you take three times the appropriate dosage of my pills." His chuckle is so forced that I don't even try to smile. "I'll be downstairs when you want to come down." I'm still voiceless when he leaves the room.

I take a long shower, washing my hair slowly. Wearing dark pants and a white blouse, I head for the kitchen. When I open the door, my stomach growls at the smell of eggs and bacon.

I'm barefoot when I reach the kitchen, the tiled floor cold under my feet. I notice that Peeta is not alone when I sit at the table.

She smiles gracefully and I duck my head. Maybe I did screw up a little for Peeta to call my mother. And for her to come here.

"I'll be at the bakery reconstruction," Peeta says before leaving the room.

"We need to talk," she says when we are alone in the kitchen. Obviously she wants to go back to Four as fast as she can, so she doesn't have time for chatting.

"About what?" I tilt up my head to look at her. Her smile has faded.

"About Prim."

Yeah. I can't say that I didn't see that one coming.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Some more therapy sections, huh?

Both Katniss and her mother have issues to solve involving Primrose. Losing someone that close is not something easy to get over it. That's why I wanted to show it in this fic; I think Prim deserved a little more attention to Katniss' mind.

But we will come back to Katniss/Peeta development, don't worry!

Special thanks to **Project Team Beta** for their amazing work with this fic.

Thank you for reading! And, wow, more than a hundred followers! Hey guys, don't be shy and please submit your comment. I'm practicing my writing skills and any kind of feedback would be great.

Have a great day,

Maia


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

"He was very worried about you," my mother says as the sound of the front door closing echoes in the tiled kitchen. I can't look at her, focusing on my toasts instead. "And so am I." She reaches for my hand that is next to the plate, squeezing it gently. I glance at her briefly, seeing her pale, blue eyes frowned in concern.

"I, I just—"

"Do you remember when you studied about genetics in school?" She cuts my unstable response, leaning back on her chair and grabbing a piece of toast for herself. I'm confused for a moment with her change of topic, chewing a dry piece of bread before answering her.

"Not really."

"Did you study anything about heredity?"

"Kind of … I guess. Is it about how you look like your parents?"

"Yes. It also works for different things besides physical appearance. You look like your father, but have a lot of my temperament." She tries to disguise it, but I catch a glimpse of the weak smile that crosses her features. "Heredity also works for personalities and diseases."

She takes a sip of her fresh coffee.

"In Four, I work at the psychiatric ward. I met many psychiatrists and psychologists, people that study and work with diseases related to the human mind. I also took a few courses to be qualified to be part of their team. Actually, I'm still studying. And …" She takes a deep breath, her weak smile making a reappearance. "I received treatment from them. Still do, to be honest."

I don't know where this conversation is heading, so I remain silent. It's strange to think that even this improved version of my mother needs treatment. She drinks more of her coffee.

"I have a diagnosis of depression, Katniss."

I nod silently; it's not a surprise for me. I watched the life withering in her eyes when my father died. I always assumed that was a signal of weakness, but I think I understand it can be a disease. However, I refuse to accept it as an excuse of her behavior. I take a deep breath, trying to push these thoughts away. It all happened years ago. She's a different person now, and so am I.

"That means," she says, "I have to fight against it every day. I need to understand where this sadness and sorrow comes from and focus my thoughts to not be dragged by my disease. You know how bad I can get." She idly takes another toast from the plate, nibbling on it carefully. "And Katniss, this disease has a genetic characteristic. And not just that—it also can be behavioral. You can … learn it from watching someone behaving like this. Principally in the childhood."

Oh. Now I see where this conversation is heading.

"I honestly think you have a tendency to it, and mixing that with your family history …" She adjusts a piece of hair behind her ear, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. "I talked to Dr. Aurelius, and he agrees with me." She chuckles ironically to herself, lightly crushing the toast between her slim fingers. "I wish I had given you better characteristics …" Her voice has a melancholic tone. "But we can't choose this kind of thing." The tone is gone and she locks her eyes with me. "There is no cure, but there's treatment. We can fight it, Katniss. Don't let your life become a hell because of something you can fight against. I know you are a fighter. You have that in you. Probably from your father …" This time her smile is hearty.

Like most of the times when she tries to help me, I want to disagree; I want to say that she's wrong and that my mind works perfectly fine. But not even Peeta can lie like that without giving himself away.

"How …" I bite on my lips, unsure how to ask that. "How do you deal with it? How do you … fight?" I'm sure it's not with bow and arrows.

She pulls her chair closer to mine and holds my hand. She caresses it warmly in her palms before meeting my gray eyes again. "I need to focus on good things to not let the sadness and numbness take over. Not just good things that happened to me, but anywhere I can extract something kind. So I make a list. I make a list in my head of every act of goodness I've seen someone do. I keep repeating this list and living these moments to not let my mind drift back to my sorrow. It can get tedious sometimes, but it prevents my mind from losing itself again." She raises my hand to her lips, landing a shaking kiss on it. She doesn't meet my eyes as she speaks. "And I don't run away from my fears. That's the hardest part, really. I'm here, you see?" She shrugs and looks quickly at me, offering a tired smile.

"Prim's memory is obviously a trigger for your crises," she continues. "It is for me, too. And that's exactly why you should talk about it. If you want, you can talk to me. But you can talk to Dr. Aurelius or even Peeta."

"None of them would understand." I pull my hand back to my chest, closing it into a fist.

"Peeta loves you, Katniss. He'd try to understand anything that—"

"That's not it …" I'm not prepared to a speech about how much Peeta loves me and how I should understand and appreciate that. "He didn't love her the way I did. The way … the way you did." I lift my chin to stare into her eyes. She's tearful, but I don't think she's not going to cry. Her expression is a mix of proud and sadness that I've never seen before. And when she opens her mouth to speak, I think I see relief.

"He didn't have the chance. Otherwise I'm sure they'd be best friends." We laugh together; a quick, quiet laughter at the thought of those two being friends. Peeta would probably teach Prim to bake and to draw. She'd show him her favorite flowers and annoy him with teen stories about school, and Peeta wouldn't even have to fake interest in her tales, because he'd love to be part of her life.

But she's dead and all of this is a stupid, hopeless dream. My laugh ends in a mute grimace. I stare deeply in those pale blue eyes, challenging her.

"If you ever dreamed of one of daughters getting married and living happily ever after with a town boy, it wasn't me, right?" The bluntness of the question takes her by surprise, but, differently from what I was expecting, she doesn't look away from me. On the contrary, she meets my steely glance with a pair of identical fierce eyes. The hue is different, but the determination is the same.

"You deserve to be happy, Katniss. As much as Prim did."

I cast my eyes to the floor, but her gentle hand on my chin forces me to look up. "She's not with us anymore and it's not your fault."

I bite hard on my shaking lips and she runs her thumb over them, prying them free from my teeth before I can draw blood from it. "It's not your fault," she repeats. "You'd do anything to save her."

"I would," I squeak, as if I still need to prove it.

"I know. I know you would." Her finger makes calming circles on my jaw and I start to feel it relaxing. "Prim made her choices and she died doing what she loved: taking care of people. Katniss, if she could see you today, do you think she'd be happy to know she's the reason why you're depressed?"

I hope this is a rhetorical question, because I'm not going to answer it.

Her hand rests on my shoulder and she pulls me into a hug. We stay silent for a moment, just hearing each other's shaky, irregular breaths.

Then, we talk.

The words feel strange on my lips at first, as if I'm penetrating some unholy ground. Though after the initial apprehension, everything flows easily from me, like a crack in a dam, free from the pressure of months of reclusion. We talk about Primrose; we cry as I say how her nose was exactly like my mother's, and how I always thought that was beautiful. We laugh remembering of how Prim used to sleep next to Lady, her goat, during the winter nights, and how the goat always "kissed" her good night with a wet lick. My eyes widen in surprise as my mother tells me how Prim was getting closer to Rory during her time in Thirteen, and that the Hawthorne boy stills sends letters to my mother in Four. We bend over in laughter at the memory of Prim's attempt of hunting, which always ended with her desperate gestures to save the wounded animal.

Thankfully, my mother waits until lunchtime to bring up the other delicate subject that has been haunting my mind lately. I notice that Peeta doesn't show up for lunch, and by the way my mother is tiptoeing around the subject of relationships, I think they agreed that he would come back just for dinner.

"How are things with Peeta?" She tries a nonchalant approach, not even looking up from the carrot she's chopping. I finish slicing the bread for our sandwiches before answering.

"We're fine."

"When he called me," she starts carefully, pronouncing each word as if I was going to run away at the wrong phrase, "he said you were upset with the possibility of a marriage." She looks at me with the corner of her eyes, checking if I'm still in the kitchen. "Don't you want to take this step?"

I take a deep breath and slouch on the chair, resting both elbows at the table. "I don't know. We went to Delly's wedding and it all felt so … empty. I don't really see the necessity of it."

She shows me a knowing smile that makes me frown.

"I'm not asking about a party," she says calmly, her smile still in place. "I'm asking if you want to spend the rest of your life with Peeta."

I … haven't thought about it that way. Maybe I lived through too many life-threatening situations that I can't focus on plans longer than a week. But now that she asked … do I? Do I want to wake up next to Peeta every single day of my life?

"I mean …" Her words bring me back from my reverie. "He sure wants it. But he'll never force you into anything." She wipes her hand with a cloth before joining me at the table. "Relationships are not always fun. They have their difficult moments for everyone, and you'll have them too. There will be days that you'll need to make a lot of lists." She rolls her eyes and I can't help but smile; is she remembering something about my father?

"But, if you really love him, it's worth it." Coming from a widow, I take this advice. She turns to the cupboard to retrieve two plates for us.

We ate lunch in comfortable silence, though my mind is racing desperately.

My mother is already sleeping by the time Peeta is back from town. I tried, but couldn't stop my mind from whirling around my thoughts.

I hear the door closing downstairs and Peeta's heavy steps as he walks around the kitchen, probably fixing something for him to eat. I curl around myself tighter on the bed when I hear him climbing up the stairs. He opens the door carefully, probably unsure if I'm still sleeping or not. I turn to face him and the light from the hall illuminates my side of the bed. Seeing that I'm awake, he turns on the lights.

He's dirty from the construction soil, dusty and dried sweat darkening his light hair. There are smudges of grease on his face, and I'm sure that his worn-out shirt didn't have a rip this morning. Matching his appearance, his eyes show tiredness and a hint of anger. Those eyes make me wince slightly before getting up.

"We should talk," I say without looking straight at him. He exhales loudly and closes the door behind him. He crosses his arms over his chest and gestures for me to go on. I feel awkward standing here, so I sit down on the bed again. He understands and pulls the chair next to the nightstand to sit close to me. I clear my throat.

"I'm sorry. I, I—"

"When I finally brought the door down—" He doesn't let me elaborate. The firmness in his voice makes me just listen, afraid that I will say something wrong. "I found you here and …" He clears his throat forcefully, blinking quickly. "I saw the messy drawer and the bottle." Like a deadly snake pressing the air out my lungs, a feeling of guilty starts to build inside me. "I thought, I thought …" He takes a deep breath and I see the tears fighting to flee his eyes. I remember his desperation when Buttercup cut my arm and he thought I had done it to myself; how disturbed he was when he found my blood in the kitchen and how he had rushed into the bathroom thinking that I had—

"I really thought you had done it." A clean trace of tears marks his smudged face. He's clenching his fists so tightly that I can see his knuckles tuning white. "And I was so angry … angry with you. Angry that you were so selfish that you had abandoned me to run away from your fears. I have fears too, Katniss. But I'd never leave you. And this is stupid, because you are so ready to leave me!" He forcefully cleans his face, smearing it a little more with fresh new tears.

"I, I didn't want to do it. I just … I just wanted to disappear for a moment." I'm surprised to think that he actually thought I had tried to kill myself. My mother didn't mention this in our early conversation, so it didn't even cross my mind. He turns towards me with such an intense blue shining in his eyes that I feel my heart in my throat. Is he trying to see if I'm lying?

He shakes his head and lets out an ironic chuckle. "I can't believe it. This is so you. Doing something without even realizing the possible consequences." Peeta uses his index finger to brush away his last tears. "You could have just talked to me." His voice is weak, as if this is an already defeated argument.

I try to process all this information. Is it true? Do I act without thinking?

"I'm going to take a bath." He disappears into the bathroom before I can answer. I make a move to open the bathroom door but think better; he doesn't want to talk to me right now. With silent, socked feet, I tread down to the living room, lying on the sofa and resuming my earlier fetal position.

I need to think about what Peeta said. If he thought I had tried to kill myself, he must be miserable now. I just wanted to forget about Prim and have a dreamless night, without disturbing nightmares waking me up. That is why I took the pills. Now Peeta thinks that I wanted to run away from him, like I am afraid or something like that. And after our fight about marriage … I'm so stupid!

I think about my act in the first arena, when I pulled out those berries. I never thought it would escalate the way it did; I was just trying to survive. I acted without thinking about the consequences.

When I am able to gather courage to go back in the room, Peeta is on the bed, applying arnica ointment on his stub, the prosthetic laying lifeless on the floor. After our last visit to the Capitol, he changed to a simpler version of his prosthetic—he didn't want to keep coming back there for the constant orthopedics and neurologist appointments. He grits his teeth while massaging his thigh; he must have strained himself today, visiting the construction and all. He doesn't give me a second glance and continues to move his hands rhythmically.

I silently move to the bed, sitting next to him. He tenses, but doesn't ask me to leave. His hair is wet from the shower, dampening his white pajama shirt. I rest my hand over his own, squeezing lightly in my wordless question. He hesitates, but moves his hands away, giving me room to restart the movements over him. We both take deep breaths as I continue to massage what was left of his leg, silently asking for forgiveness.

But now is a moment that I need to find words.

"I'm sorry," I start quietly. "I didn't mean to hurt myself. I just wanted to … run, I guess, but not in that way."

He carefully places his hand over mine, making me look up at him. We're both crying.

"Talk to me," he says in a shaking voice. "Don't suffer alone. Don't try to run."

I move closer to him to lie on his chest; we both inhale, relieved with the contact, and I smell of the flowery soap my mother brought us from Four.

"Please, talk to me," he whispers to my hair, nudging it with his nose.

For the second time in the day, I do. I talk about my fears. I talk about Rue, Boggs, Prim. He holds me when I cry and laughs at the goat story. We talk about my father. I tell him how he taught me to shoot; first with apples and then with nuts. This gives him an idea to make an apple-nut pie.

I fall asleep with his warm caress on my still damp cheeks.

* * *

The smell of caramelized sugar fills the kitchen when I step in the next morning. My mother and Peeta are happily discussing something about a recipe, and I greet them briefly before zeroing my attention to the savory pie on the table. Peeta must have been up for a while for it to be ready.

We chat between pie and tea while my mother shows us pictures of her house in Four. It's starkly different from our old, sagged and cold Seam house that I can understand why she doesn't want to leave there. It's even more beautiful than our houses in the Victor's Village, more vivid somehow.

I'm washing the dishes, listening to Peeta telling my mother a story about his older brother. Apparently, he made a pie once and switched measurements of salt and sugar, ending up with a salty pear pie. Peeta tells how they had to eat it, had to not throw it away, and how his other brother filled his boots with pie to try to feign their mother. My mom laughs so hard at his impression of his brother walking with pie-filled boots that I think she's going to choke with her tea.

I close my eyes and concentrate on the air entering and leaving my lungs. My mother is here in Twelve to help me; Peeta is constructing a new bakery for the district; Haymitch is giving goose eggs in the market to the ones that can't afford them. That's a good list to start my day.

I'm grateful for my mother and how well she is now. I'm grateful for the food filling my belly, for the warm clothes I'm wearing and for the strong roof above my head. I use a white cloth to dry my hands, seeing the scars that cover them. I'm grateful for those too, because they remind me of what I've been through and that I've survived. I'm grateful for Peeta, for his love, patience and endless supply of bad jokes.

With the sound of my mother's laugh around us, I join them in the living room. I sit beside Peeta and swing my legs over his good one, and he automatically rests his hand on my knee, massaging it without braking eye contact with my mother as he continues his story about a cat he once tried to save. Buttercup joins us and purrs lightly around my mother's ankles until she scoops him up to her lap. She was always his favorite after Prim. (I believe Buttercup likes blondes.)

I look at Peeta and watch his stubble shine in the morning sun. Thinking back about my last conversation with my mother, I think I have an answer for her now.

We are happy; we are family. And I'm starting to accept that I deserve that.

* * *

My mother goes back to Four after a week here. We bid good-bye on a cold autumn morning, making promises of future visits in the spring.

Peeta's limp is more prominent when we walk back from the train station to our house. He went to the bakery reconstruction almost every day this past week, causing his bad leg to hurt. He's trying to disguise, but I can see it's bothering him. As soon as we enter the house, I reach for his hand, which is already massaging his leg under his jeans.

"What?" he asks with a half-smile.

"Let's go upstairs …" I look at my boots because I know a blush is creeping up my face. He raises an eyebrow, but his smile is still in place. "I think you need a massage." The phrase doesn't have the effect I was expecting, and he frowns at me, looking down to his leg self-consciously. "It's okay." I squeeze his hand lightly before moving closer to palm his bad thigh. "You don't need to hide from me."

He nods silently, caressing my chin with his knuckles. The kiss is soft and he grunts lightly when I press harder on his thigh. "Does it hurt?"

"It's kinda sore," he admits quietly, and it's my turn to frown.

"Why didn't you tell me? You shouldn't go to town every morning." I use both my hands to press his thigh, and he winces when I touch the junction of his prosthetic.

"Stop it. I'm fine." He playfully bats my hand away, limping for the stairs. "Really, it's just a little sore. I'll lie down and it'll be better later."

Peeta is very good at hiding his discomforts, so I don't really know how bad it is. "C'mon." I offer my hand to help him climb the stairs, but he waves it away, grabbing the handrail for support.

"I'm fine, Katniss, really, I—" He slips while reaching for the next step, and even with my quick reflex to hold him, he hits his bad leg on the stairs, swearing loudly at the impact.

"Yeah, super fine." I huff while straightening him up and guiding him to our room. He mumbles that he doesn't really need help, but doesn't let go of my arm until he's on our bed. I roll my eyes and kneel next to him, reaching for his pants to undo his belt.

"What are you doing?" he asks when my hand rests on his simple buckle.

"Trying to get this thing off you." I use my chin to point to his prosthetic leg. "Get the arnica ointment on the nightstand." I push his pants down without even reconsidering it. We've already passed that phase.

I look up to meet his eyes, seeing that he's flushed. I rest both my hands on the junction of his flesh and the artificial material, silently asking for permission. He rests his head on the headboard, letting out a long breath. I take that as a yes and free his leg from the lifeless limb.

"Shit …" I say to myself, grimacing at the sight. His leg is greenish purple where it connects to the prosthetic, and up to the middle of his thigh is an angry red. There's a new scratch near the end, which I take as the result of his earlier fall. I just hate seeing injuries. "This is worse than I remembered. What happened?"

"I'm climbing the stairs a lot in the bakery …" He doesn't look at me because he knows I'll scowl at him.

"Peeta …"

"Stop it, okay?" He laughs quietly. "I'm going to be the owner of the bakery. I need to participate. And besides …" He runs a hand through his hair. "I don't want to look different."

I bite my lips, getting the ointment myself. I don't know what to respond to him. The green cream smells good and I spread it along his bruises. He closes his eyes in approval, contracting the muscles under my touch.

"Where does it hurt more?" I ask without deviating my eyes from his leg.

"Right at the end." He guides my hand to the stub. I nod and make lazy, soft circles on it. I press a little harder higher on his thigh, venturing towards the edge of his boxers. I move my hand down again, ignoring his sharp intake of breath when my hand left the cozy spot close to his underwear. But he soon relaxes, lying further against the headboard. His eyes are still closed and his muscles are contracting less and less; I can feel his breathing evening as I continue the rhythmic pattern on his skin.

Even after he falls asleep, I keep with the massage. I can't seem to let go of him, tracing every detail of his injury. I'm sad that he still thinks that this is a problem for him, that he thinks this is the reason people act like we are different. I have both my legs and no one ever looked at me the same way after the games.

I finally release his leg to tuck him decently in bed. Otherwise, he will wake up with an awful wry neck. I pull him down lightly until he's lying on his back, placing a pillow under his blond curls. His hair is starting to grow again; the tips threatening to cover his eyes. I watch his chest raise and fall, palming his shoulders to feel his warm body even closer. His mouth is slightly open and I _just_ know he will drool tonight. His expression is calm, no trace of pain. I hope he dreams tonight; a good dream that will make him smile in the morning while preparing our breakfast.

And I really want that; I want to wake up every morning to that smile and those drooling lips. I want to massage his leg every night and complain about his growing hair every month.

I trace a finger from the scar above his eyebrow to his lips, savoring at each curve of his face. He stirs, but doesn't wake up, mumbling something incoherent and unconsciously grabbing my hand. I smile to myself.

Yes, I want to marry Peeta.

* * *

**Author's Note: **There were a few questions about the "pills scene" of the last chapter. I hope that everything is clear with this one. If you have any doubts, please, just leave a comment or send me a PM. I will be happy to answer you.

Talking about active readers, I want to thank **veronique2 **for her great review and PMs, which inspired me to write the scene where Katniss asks for Peeta's forgiveness in a different way from what I first thought. I liked the way it turned out, what do you guys think?

Special thanks to **Project Team Beta** for their amazing work with this fic.

Next chapter we'll have some romantic toasting ceremony and some awkward/funny/fluffy/a-lot-of-other-things sex scenes!

And I'm also preparing some new stuff for the epilogue. Or should I say "epilogues"? Just wait for the next chapter and I'll explain it better; let's just say I want you guys participating a little bit more in the story.

Have a great day!

Maia


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

I act on impulse.

Since Peeta said that I have this tendency to act before thinking of the consequences, I decided to actually think about it. And it's true.

I'm a born hunter. I rely on my instincts and fast response to stay alive. The memory of quick reflexes and actions is ingrained in my mind and body—even though hunting doesn't mean surviving anymore— and sometimes I get into trouble because of this temper.

But not today.

Today, all my actions and moves were meticulously planned. At least until this exact moment, because what happens from now on doesn't depend just on me.

Autumn passed in a blur of orange, brown, and chilly breezes. I needed those months to, with each day, digest and confirm my decision. Many hours were spent in the woods without any blood being shed from my bow. Though many tears wet my face in those calm, monotonous mornings. Tears of sorrow, fear, doubt, and finally happiness.

I bite my lips when I hear the heavy steps on the stairs. The sound of the wood bending breaks the continuous monolog of the fire crackling. I take a deep breath and fidget with my hands on my lap.

Peeta had an appointment with the Capitol's orthopedist at the end of autumn. He convinced the doctor to come to Twelve—it's incredible how Peeta can convince people. The fancy doctor wanted him to use a modern prosthetic that would have thousands of nerves connections, which would lead Peeta to monthly appointments in the Capitol. He refused the idea in a much politer way than my frowning—followed by a snort when the doctor actually asked my opinion—and stuck with his simpler version of the appendance. Later that night, he told me that he didn't want a leg he couldn't take off sometimes. He didn't want any Capitol apparatus making him complete. _"I don't want them to change me even more."_

I can't blame him.

And that means more massages on his leg. I wonder if _this_ isn't the real motive …

Peeta turns on the living room lights when he gets to the bottom of the stairs. It's not that early, but nights are longer in the winter; he needs the light to fully see me in the dark room. His cotton shirt and pants are crumpled from the night, and I frown, seeing his bare foot. Since he slipped wearing his socks last week, he is walking barefoot in the house. When he climbs into bed at night, his foot is colder than his prosthetic. He annoyingly waves if off every time I say he'll get the flu.

My frown turns to a smile when I see his sleepy, confused expression. He glances to the fire, at me and then to the bread. The smell of fresh baked bread is filling the house from the kitchen, unable to escape through the closed windows.

This is one of the very well—okay, maybe just "well"—planned moves of today. It's been weeks since I started searching for recipes and, when Peeta is not at home, practicing my baking abilities. It turns out that I suck. But, like any other stubborn person, I kept trying to get it right even after countless batches of burned bread or uncooked ones—one looked like a pie, but tasted like raw squirrel; I'm not sure how I managed that, but the dead squirrel next to the flour was a clue. I learned how to make an acceptable loaf after a couple of weeks, and I was very satisfied. Almost as I am today, looking at the light brown, crispy crust of the bread I made.

"You baked?" Peeta asks in a half-smile. I nod proudly. "I knew someone was using the white flour …"

I clear my throat and get up from the couch, standing between the fire and the small table with the bread, my cheeks blushing lightly. I stretch out my hand for him.

"What …" he starts to say, but the words don't come out as he understands, his eyes widening in a mix of content and surprise. He slowly walks towards me, probably unsure if I'll run away or not. I hold his warm hand and intertwine our fingers. "Katniss …"

"I don't know if this is what you want—without flourish cakes and fancy dresses, I mean." My eyes are fixed on the fire as I speak. The blend of colors is contagiously beautiful. "We have been watched for so long that I thought this moment should be only ours." He brings our hands up to kiss my palm; I feel his lips trembling a little.

"I don't really care about cakes and dresses." He laughs, his breath brushing my fingers. "I only care about you." His eyes are reflecting the heated fire, orange swimming in blue. I want to look at those eyes every day of my life. When they are red from crying, troubled by nightmares, or hazed with pleasure. I want everything.

He takes the lead and guides us to the hearth, carefully kneeling next to the table. Suddenly, as if remembering something, he looks down at himself and then back up at me.

"I … I need to change," he says with a small degree of concern on his voice, looking incredibly sweet. "I'm still in my pajamas, and you—"

"I woke up hours ago to bake the bread."

His half-smile is back and he smoothes one stray curl back in place. "I can at least try to fix this," he says while failing in trying to arrange his rebellious curls.

"Stop it …" I reach for his hand and rest it on my lap, caressing it tenderly. He should know that his appearance is my smallest concern right now. Silence falls between us, sharing the moment with the snapping from the fire logs.

"Are you …" He looks up at me and I see the worst thing I can find in those eyes: doubt. "Are you—"

"Don't even dare asking me if I'm sure," I warn him while holding tight on his hand.

I've been thinking about it for months. I'm deadly sure.

I'm relieved as doubt disappears from his glance, and he laughs and kisses my hand, lingering in the contact of my skin to his lips. A small shiver runs my spine and dies in my lower belly.

Peeta turns to the table, the bread and utensils ready. He cuts a piece from the loaf, squeezing the white bread and nodding in approval. When he takes a deep breath, I don't know if he's smelling the bread of just steading himself.

"You know …" He's still sideways to me, looking curiously to the bread in his hand. "We still need witnesses to sign the papers."

As I said, everything was planned.

"Spring is a beautiful season for open-air ceremonies …" I say each word carefully, unsure how Peeta will accept them. "Small ones."

"How small?"

"Ten people small."

"Fair enough." His smile hides a hint of satisfaction, which I take as a good sign. I will convince him to five people by the end of the winter.

Turning to face me, I see his hands shaking slightly as he grasps the bread, his eyes lost in the beaming fire.

"I'm … I'm really happy." He forces a small laugh, his iris reflecting an infinite orange. "I really want to do this, and I'm happy you also do, too."

My breath catches in my throat as he decisively locks his azure glance on me.

"The papers, the bread …" he continues. "They mean nothing. What I want you to know is that I promise to stay by your side for the rest of my life."

I don't dare to avert my eyes from him. He leans closer, but to my frustration, his lips don't close the distance to mine.

"I love you, Katniss."

Not giving him the chance to move first, I seal our lips in a longing, loving kiss. I wind my arms around his neck and pull him closer, wanting—needing—his touch.

And here is where my plan ends. From now on, it's a hundred percent impulse.

He responds to the kiss for a moment, molding his body against me. I feel his hands on my shoulders, pushing back slightly as we gasp for air. His lips are curving under my kiss, and he's smiling as I raise one eyebrow.

"The bread …"

I glance down to see the once perfect loaf crushed between his hand and my knee. I didn't notice I had moved this close to him. A blush creeps onto my face and we laugh together.

"We're going to burn it, anyway," I say sheepishly, giving him space to prepare the bread for the toasting.

As the flames lick the soft mass and we watch it in comfortable silence, realization hits me. This is my toasting; Katniss Everdeen's toasting. Soon to be Katniss Mellark. Hm … _Katniss Mellark_. I rest my head on Peeta's shoulder as he continues to toast the bread, feeling his breath and the steady thud of his heart. I wonder if Prim would smile seeing me like this.

"Should we say anything?" His words cut the silence as he retrieves the bread from the fire.

"You've said enough." I accept the piece he parts for me, steaming blossoming from the cleft in the crust.

"And I meant everything."

Of course, the truth is that I really don't know what to say. My heart knows, but my brain has serious issues trying to come up with words to describe it.

I bite the warm bread and it tastes almost as good as I hoped. I swallow it carefully, feeling the weight of the gesture and ceremony. Peeta looks at me and his smile is huge, making me mirror him.

"What?" I ask resting the rest of the bread on the table.

"Can I call you Mrs. Mellark?"

"Shut up." I pat his hand lightly before he can laugh.

"Okay, Mrs. Mellark. I will." His voice falls to a husky tone as he leans closer to hug me, nestling my head between his neck and shoulder. I take a shuttering breath, the taste of the bread dominating my tongue.

Until I dart it out to lick the soft skin of Peeta's neck.

His response is automatic and his arms tighten around me, his fingers digging into my back. I take it as an encouragement, deliberately trailing my tongue along his neck, feeling his skin erupting in goose bumps under my wet touch. I raise my chin to reach his jaw, nibbling slightly and hoping he will understand. He barely loosens his embrace around me to search my lips, deepening the kiss when I open my mouth to breathe.

The heat that was limited to the fireplace spreads to us like wildfire, igniting the known desire in my core. His hands, always increasing in ability, run to my back and rest on my hips, pulling me closer so I can straddle him. My breath catches in my throat when I feel him hard under his pants, pressing against my thigh. His lips curl under mine in a grin, reaching to nibble my earlobe and murmur softly.

"I want you, Mrs. Mellark."

I don't have the courage to ask him to shut up or the air to do so as he searches for my lips again. I feel my own arousal pooling between my legs and eagerly start to press myself against him. We both gasp at the repetitive contact, pushing harder until we can't wait any longer, the heat in the room increasing with our labored breaths, the fire and the closed windows.

He doesn't ask when he picks me up and heads for the stairs. I don't ask either; this has become a familiar ritual to us. And now we get to another unplanned section of the day.

Yes, Peeta and I are having a lot of fun in bed. He is getting _amazingly _good in oral sex, so that I have nothing to complain about. I'm still … getting used to the idea of returning the favor. Honestly, my jaw aches after I do it, but since Peeta apparently enjoys it a lot, I'm trying to get used to the idea. Hands run free on our bed, exploring our bodies in every way.

And that's exactly what his hands are doing now: exploring. Between his leg, my body weight and the way he keeps grasping my hips and breasts, it's a miracle we get to bed without falling. My heart is thumping in my chest as Peeta delicately lays me on the mattress, a sweet smile featuring his face that doesn't actually match the lust in his eyes.

He opens his mouth to say something, but I swallow whatever it was going to be in an urgent kiss. It's my turn to speak.

"I want you, too."

He grunts in the kiss, showing obvious appreciation as he searches for the hem of my shirt. I'm wearing a plain long-sleeved blouse and sweatpants that soon hit the bedroom floor. His hand brushes my thigh's downy hairs so lightly and teasingly that I let an impatient groan escape. He continues his teasing, making me spread my legs to him with just a slight push from his fingers.

Peeta loves to do that: observe, watch—a silent hunter preparing his prey. This thought sends a thrilling bolt through my spine—I like it. I like being the prey when Peeta is the one to capture me. He is consuming me with his eyes as he tortures us both with the wait. His glance travels over every corner of my scared body, just the small bra and dampening panties covering me. Today he has a different glow, a more possessive way to look at me; it makes me feel vulnerable and _ready_.

When he removes his shirt, his hands take annoyingly extra time to warm me again, firstly closing around his erection to adjust it under his probably too tight boxers. He knows I'm watching while he does it, and maybe he hopes for me to enjoy it as much as he does watching me. I do.

He licks his lips before ghosting his fingers over my exposed legs, the teasing unbearably delicious, his artistic hand feathering me like a delicate canvas. I open my eyes that have stubbornly closed to see him, his glance locked on me. Domination and a hint of doubt are clouding his normally clear, blue eyes.

His shaky breath is what finally makes me understand.

Today, Peeta wants to make a move. Since the Capitol, when we first started taking our physical relationship to the next level, he never pushed me into anything further, apparently happy and satisfied with tongues and hands. But … not today. Not now. Peeta wants more.

The verging-on painful torture that consumes me as he slowly removes my panties makes me bite hard on my lips not to whimper. I automatically clamp my legs together, needing any amount of pressure on my throbbing center. He rests his weight on his elbows, hovering over me, offering his chest for my hands to claw on his muscles.

"Don't do that …"

I think he's talking about my position until his hand moves to my lips, caressing the compressed flesh under my trembling teeth.

"I want to hear you."

"Peeta …" I breathe out. My body is quivering with a mixture of arousal and anticipation.

"I want to hear you every time we share a bed, every time you come, every time you want me …" His voice is low and his head is buried next to my neck. His hand has descended to my breasts and his mouth is worrying my earlobe when he stops to catch a breath.

I moan with barely hidden surprise on his next request.

"I want to hear you every time I'm inside you."

The drumming noise in my chest runs up to my mind in my growing anxiety. Of course, if Peeta is ever going to make a move, it's going to be the next step we didn't take yet. I want him, he wants me … I don't think either of us can explain why we haven't done it yet. Over the past months I was too distracted, consumed with my own thoughts, and I probably ignored Peeta's hints about wanting to take it to the next level. Today, with a proof and an act of promises and commitment, it seems natural for him to want to thoroughly possess me.

If he only knew he already has for a long time now.

"Katniss …" The resolution in his voice leaves him as he pushes against the mattress to look down at me. His brown is creased and his lips are lopsided. "If you—"

"Yes." I move my hands to his back to touch our bodies, his nipples hard against the soft cotton of my bra. "Yes," I repeat, this time so close to his ear that I'm sure he'll listen and believe.

He smiles weakly before kissing me again. We both relax in the familiar gesture; the way his tongue dances along with mine is known territory, a calm breeze before the newness.

My bra and his pants join our blouses on the floor, and I can't hold back my grin at the sight of Peeta's full erection. I try really hard not to frown at the idea of that inside me, considering the difference in length from any pair of fingers that had already ventured into those spaces.

We don't need to discuss any kind of protection. He knows about the shot I took in the Capitol, and he knows that I went to the doctor to discuss this subject specifically. So technically, we're prepared. Emotionally, it's a different history. But hey, impulses acting now.

I don't know if we're moving too fast or not when he positions himself over my entrance, my back fully rested on the bed and his body supported by his knees and elbows. He's wearing his prosthetic, which equally levels him above me.

The pounding in my ears is so loud that it takes me a moment to notice my irregular breath. I close my eyes to wait for him, but he doesn't move or do anything. My mouth opens to form a question, but only a pleased moan comes out. Well, he is doing something.

Not what I was expecting, but something good anyway. He is holding himself over me, sliding his member from the seeping slit to my aching clit. He starts slowly, the wetness from both our bodies lubricating and softening the movement. It's something new and so, so good.

But a different question forms now, and I manage to squeak it out between the constant whimper in the back of my throat.

"What is—"

"Is it good?" he asks panting, his arm moving faster among our bodies.

"Yeah—" A new moan covers my response, my eyes rolling back as Peeta increases the speed.

"Do you want to try?"

My hips are trying to catch the rhythm his hand is imposing, but we're not fully synchronized. I feel his hand searching for my own, which was occupied by clutching the blanket. He guides me to cup him, sliding my hand against the moist shaft. I adjust my hips and spread my legs even wider, wanting him to touch as much of me as possible.

I hope I'm not hurting him as I start the movement again, hearing him moan on my neck as I impose a faster pace than he was doing earlier. The sensation of his hot erection so close to me is pushing me further, and I start to feel the pleasure coiling in my lower belly.

Peeta's hands are firmly palmed on the bed, giving me space to completely move my hand between our bodies. I tease my entrance to gather the continuous flow of arousal and guide him back to the point of undeniable attention above it.

It's hotter than just the fingers I'm used to, and the sensation is different—_better_. It slides graciously over me, making me want it harder and faster. My forearm muscles start to protest, but I completely ignore it, too focused on the chase of my climax and Peeta's constant moans of encouragement. I pick up the pace, rubbing it so strongly against me that I'm afraid I may hurt him, though nothing can stop me right now. I'm aware of my moans filling the room, and I don't try to hold any of them back, knowing that Peeta wants them.

My eyes are shut closed, my legs wanting to spread more than they can handle and my muscles are trembling with anticipation. Peeta's hips are trying to thrust against my hand, and I'm not sure if I'm holding too tight or not. I just need to keep doing this, to keep running after this reachable climax and pleasure brought by this endless friction.

"I want you, I want you …" I can't tell who is saying this, but it keeps playing in my head, as I'm so close that stopping now would be a crime.

It rises to a level that overflows, hitting my throat with a sharp cry in a huge wave of pleasure. My grip on him is tight as I tremble under his weight; I stop my hands and hold to Peeta in a single breath, moaning my soul out as it washes my body completely, leaving me limp and boneless as it passes.

I can't open my eyes as the orgasm now sends quiet waves through me, and I'm completely numb when I finally manage to level my breaths. I open one eye slowly, not sure if I want to give up the dark calmness of the aftermath.

What I see makes me change my mind.

My hand is still loosely around Peeta's hardness, and he's contracting his face in what must be a certain expression of self-control. He's red and watching me intensely, drinking my eyes with his.

"That was—"

"I know." My voice is hoarse from the previous exertion, and I reach his lips not to wait any longer. I want him to feel as good as I did; and I want to be the one responsible for that. The kiss is uneven; my lips are still trembling lightly and his are extremely hungry. I break it first, looking down between us to once more position him. I see him smiling in the corner of my eye, and he twitches between my fingers.

I take a slow, deep breath as I release him, looking up to meet his eyes.

"Tell me if you feel uncomfortable," he says softly.

I smile to myself; I can feel him literally trembling with arousal, ready to make love to me, and he's still worried about my wellbeing.

"Just … just go slow." I didn't want to say anything, but nervousness is growing inside me. It's not going to be much different from his fingers, right? Nothing too complicated or painful, or even—

"Shit …" he hisses when he slides between my folds, entering me in a calm, though unsteady movement. I match his response with my own hiss, feeling every muscle in my body tense for different reasons; my arms are anxious, my belly is nervous, my legs need support and, inside me, new muscles are stretching for the first time.

I think I hiss again, because Peeta stops and mumbles endless apologies. I can't process anything he's saying, too focused on adjusting my body to this new sensation. I can't lie that I appreciate the fact that he has stopped, which gives me time to get used to him. It's a different kind of pain, not the deep sting of a broken bone, but a heated cut of a sharp, keen knife. I move my hips slightly, making both of us moan. I move again, the pain subsiding, though the fullness is still here. I focus on deep breaths and try another movement, and this time Peeta moves with me. My moan has nothing to do with pain now.

"You feel …" he starts, also taking a deep breath, his forearms quivering next to me. "You feel good—so …" But he can't continue as I raise my hips once more, our bodies meeting as he enters deeper.

Talking is something beyond any of our abilities as we continue to try to match each other's moves, advances and moans. We basically just succeed in the last one, and the pain comes back a little after Peeta suddenly increases the speed. But I won't ask him to stop. He's crushing the headboard above me, his eyes shut in concentration and upcoming pleasure. Even if it's slightly uncomfortable, I won't ask him to stop. The pain is not so bad and is mixed with the remaining orgasm and building pleasure; the friction of his lower belly against my clit feels good and I concentrate on that as I wait for him. I don't suppress any groan, and my sharp breaths encourage Peeta to move faster.

"I, I—" But whatever he was going to warn me about fades in a throaty grunt and he stills, gritting his teeth in the discreet curse that follows. I gasp when I feel him inside be, spreading a warm sensation between our bodies. It has a satisfactory feeling, and Peeta finally collapses on me, his arms not strong enough to hold him anymore.

We stay quiet for what feels like minutes, our heavy breaths being the only thing we can process in the steamy room. His head rests above my breasts, two small pillows for his tangled curls. One of my hands runs through his hair and along his chin, making him look up at me.

"Peeta …" I say, waiting for a satisfied or calm expression to greet me, but all I find is a creased brown and pursed lips. "Peeta?" I ask, feeling the cold fingers of panic closing around my throat. His eyes are dilated under the room's light, but I can clearly see them shrinking at each second and his lips start to move soundlessly.

No. Not now; not _fucking_ now he's going to have a—

"You love me." He shakes his head and looks up, his eyes returning to the normal state; I swallow the lump that was forming in my throat. "You love me," he repeats, his hands curling around my arms. "Real or not real?"

I release a shuttering breath, result of the pleasure, pain, arousal and panic washing me in the last hour. I feel vulnerable, exposed and loved. As I can still sense him softening inside me, his weight slightly winding me and his clear, longing eyes searching for the truth, all I can offer him is that: raw and simple truth.

"Real."

He relaxes above me; his body raises and falls with his breath. I hear him chuckling and he murmurs against my chest.

"This is exactly how every toasting should end."

I can't argue with that.

Though I don't want it to end here; the day is just beginning, right?

* * *

**Author's Note: **I hope I didn't scare anyone with the last scene there; I'm sorry if I did … Nah, I'm not that sorry. ;D

Maybe you guys are wondering: "wow, it took not that long for things to happen in the beginning of the fic, and in these last chapter it took months for things to happen!" Well, that's true. But I believe that's a characteristic of our lovely Katniss. She's from extremes; sometimes she acts fully on impulse (like with the berries) and other times she takes months to even start to think about something (like the months after their first Games.) So I thought this was plausible in my fic.

The story is getting to the end, but I promise a very nice surprise for the next chapter!

Special thanks to **Project Team Beta **for their excellent work with this fanfic!

As always, any comment, doubt, complaint or joke, feel free to send me a PM.

Have a great day!

Maia


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen **

"Shut up."

"I'm sorry! I'm really trying, but you're so—"

"Shut up, Jo!" I hiss a little louder at her, hoping this time I'll be successful. The walk from my house to the new Justice Building is turning out to be longer than I expected, and full of unappropriated comments from Johanna. It's good that I decided to keep with the boots.

"I mean," she continues between small tears of laugher, "you have a bouquet, Mockingjay. A white dress and a bouquet in mid-spring. I have all the rights to laugh."

I give up begging her for silence; she's not going to quit. Honestly, when I looked at my reflection this morning—dress and light make-up in place—I had to bite back a snort so my mother wouldn't harass me. Johanna is not that polite. She has been laughing since she saw me in the living room. No wonder my mother decided to go to the Justice Building with Peeta ahead of us, wanting any excuse to stay away from sarcastic, ironic Johanna.

"Don't get me wrong," Johanna says, "I'm happy for you and all. It's just …"

"I know." I wonder what would be my reaction if it were Johanna getting married.

"I hope you do." She stops and reaches for my hand, making me look at her. She's wearing a plain cream dress that almost matches the pearl hue of my white gown. My _simple _wedding gown. It's fancy enough for Peeta to shut up about it and ordinary enough for our eight people ceremony. I tried to keep it to six, but Peeta insisted that Delly and her husband's presence were important. Oh right, and there is also—

"Is Gale single?" Her eyes squint in her usual smirk and the serious moment is gone.

"He's too young for you!" I pat her hand and feign a frown, adjusting the strap of my dress before stepping away from her.

"That's good. I can teach him a few moves …" She speaks loud enough for me to hear.

"Stop it right now." I'm already nervous with this whole ceremony thing. I don't need dirty images of Johanna and Gale in my mind to make my stomach flip.

"Yeah, right. You're Miss Chastity." She snorts. "You're even wearing a white dress. Do you know what the white means, Katniss?"

I speed up my pace and do my best to ignore my blush.

"I thought so." She catches up with me, whispering in a malicious voice. "And do you realize you're limping?"

My eyes widen and I almost trip in the rush to turn around and grab her arm, searching for any hint of truth in her playfulness.

"You're not serious," I hiss, hoping it to be a joke.

"Nah, I'm just messing with you." Her smirk melts into a solid smile, and I think I see a shade of pride. "Though the boots were a good idea."

Yeah, they are a good idea. And, truth be told, I am a little bit sore.

Peeta and I decided, after endless discussions, to finally have a wedding ceremony. His arguments were good enough to convince me, and when he talked it over with my mother, I was outnumbered. The number of guests was a different topic, and this time I could convince him that we just needed people that actually meant something to us. Today, we're going to sign the official documents of our union with my mother, Haymitch, Johanna and Gale as guests. Oh, and Delly and her husband.

I didn't originally think to invite Gale. I can't say that it didn't cross my mind, but I wasn't the one to bring up the topic. I just agreed when Peeta suggested. The idea that this started out as a contest doesn't leave my mind, though. Well, I'll be Mrs. Mellark by the end of the day. This "contest" is already over.

Officially, my name changes today. But I have been technically Mrs. Mellark since our toasting. I didn't know this was going to happen, but we changed since that small, private encounter. Peeta is more secure about talking of the future, though he's smart enough to not mention kids. We make plans for the new bakery and discuss ideas for a job for me—since baking is out of the question. We're still deciding, but teaching the District's members to hunt is the best option for me. Hunting isn't illegal anymore, and most of the inhabitants never learned how to do it. And it's a good excuse to spend the entire day in the woods.

We also spent an enormous amount of time in our bedroom during the winter. And it didn't always have to do with the fact that it was snowing outside. Sex is like hunting: you need to practice to be good and reach for the best prey. We're starting to hit some big, delicious and great—_oh so great—_prey. That's why I am indeed limping today.

"Ready for this?" Johanna asks when we reach the Justice Building's stairs. The square is practically deserted; today is the busiest day in the town market. Everybody is buying and selling things on the other side of the town, which was the reason I chose a Wednesday to do this. Nobody is close by to notice my suspicious gown or the discreet table waiting for us in our backyard.

The man arranging the papers in the small Documents Room is obviously from the Capitol. His nails glow a bright tone of yellow and his glasses shine in the same hue. I can't read the name tag on his brown suit as he excitedly talks to Peeta. He probably knew there was going to be a couple signing the union papers today, though I believe he just found out this said couple includes the faces of the Rebellion. It still gives me shivers to think about myself that way.

My mother is between Peeta and Haymitch, her head turning to us when we enter the room. Johanna waves at them, her smile in place. My mom tries to disguise it, but I catch a glimpse of her own proud smile as I stand next to Peeta, intertwining our fingers.

"I almost thought you wouldn't show up," he playfully whispers to me, pointing to his shoes. "See? They are black. No red shoes."

I roll my eyes in a silent laugh. Peeta remembers how I hated his red shoes last time we were in the Capitol, so today he's wearing plain black shoes and a gray button-up shirt. It took some convincing, but I made him forget about the suit.

"Well, well, well," Haymitch opens his mouth for the first time, making my laugh transform into a snort. I can smell his liquor from the other side of the room. "Looking beautiful, sweetheart. I really thought this day would never come."

"Just sign the papers," Johanna grabs his hand and moves next to the table in front of the Capitol's Registry employee. He seems clueless of everything and just excited to have a little bit of news in our usually boring district.

"What? That was a compliment!" Haymitch says, following Johanna with exaggerated movements. She places him close enough to a chair and goes to stand next to Gale. Gale, of course, is wearing his military uniform. I don't think that there could be any other clothing more inappropriate for this. I hope he knows this is not a duty; it's just his friend's marriage.

It's not actually a big event or anything. I'm going to sign some papers with one hand—while the other is holding the bouquet my mother _insisted_ me to carry—watch as the other witness also mark their names, exchange a few compliments and hope for my mother not to cry. Then we'll be back to our home and have a quiet, family brunch. Simple as that; no need for tears.

I just think someone should have told Delly that, because I can hear her sniffing as I hold the pen. Peeta's hand stays firmly around my waist, and he kisses my cheek when I give the pen to him. Delly claps when he finishes writing his name, and Johanna laughs for the umpteenth time this morning. Gale smile is bigger than his cheeks, but he fakes a serious expression when I squint at him. My mother is silent, but her eyes say everything. Gale and Haymitch pat Peeta on his back, and Delly hugs me strongly enough to almost wind me.

Haymitch Abernathy. Johanna Mason. Peeta Mellark. Katniss Everdeen-Mellark.

I take a deep breath; those are the names on my marriage certificate. Yeah, it's official.

Peeta doesn't offer to make a toast or anything special while we all share a meal in our backyard. Delly babbles about her upcoming trip to District Four, and my mother enters the conversation with tips about the place. Gale and Haymitch are animatedly discussing the necessity of new rails in the country—I'm almost sure Haymitch is drunk and just inventing numbers as he argues about the income of the Capitol's taxes. Johanna has been currently looking at the bread on her plate for five minutes now, absorbed in thoughts.

My head is resting on Peeta's shoulder as he talks to Delly's husband, his chest rising with his comfortable laugh.

The sun is high above us and there are small clouds in the light blue sky. Dancing leaves, newborn birds and happy voices fill the air of the Village today. The primrose bushes, planted a year ago, bloom with exceptional vigor. Perched on the kitchen's windowsill, Buttercup watches us, purring as a soft breeze passes.

A yellow butterfly spins next to my hand, tenderly swinging her wings in the wind. It lands on my finger, so gently that I can barely feel it.

A new chapter of my life has just begun.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I know, I know … "what about the rest of the story? There are a lot of things to happen "between the pages" of Suzanne's last chapter and her Epilogue!" Yes, there are, and I proudly offer you my _Collection Of Epilogues_. (I believe the name is very self-explanatory.)

But—and here is my surprise!—I want you guys participating in it. You, reader, that always wanted to read a specific scene of Katniss and Peeta's life post-Mockingjay, I want to hear your opinion and _suggestion_. The first epilogue is my own, and the second one was a suggestion from **veronique2**. Send me a PM, post a review, leave a comment … I want all kinds of suggestions, and the best ones will be part of this story! (They don't need to be chronological.)

I'll be waiting!

Thank you for reading,

Maia


	18. Collection Of Epilogues, Volume I

_Collection Of Epilogues_

_Volume I_

**Epilogue One**

** Years of marriage: five**

** Katniss' POV. **

** District Twelve **

Eventually, everybody dies. Even dirty, apparently immortal, smelly cats.

Though it's extremely unfair that a young kitten like this died before old, grumpy Buttercup.

Peeta found him wandering around the bakery, probably attracted by the fresh bread smell. For Peeta, it seemed logical to bring the small kitty back home. I told him to get rid of the cat, since Buttercup would probably hate competition. But the kitten ended up convincing us both that he was welcome—and necessary.

He convinced me the day I saw him eating a big, fat cockroach. I hate bugs in the house, because they spoil the food. And I felt a little proud of the small, cute hunter.

I don't know how he convinced Buttercup, but in a week the two of them were meowing around the house like old friends. It gave me a calm sensation, to see two creatures sharing the roof with Peeta and me. Almost like a family.

How did he get sick? How did he pass from a vivacious being to a dead corpse in a couple of days? I don't know. My best guess is: everybody dies, eventually.

Buttercup meows next to me as I continue to dig the small hole in our back yard. Peeta is still at the bakery, and I want to get this over with it before he comes back. He'll hate to hear about the kitten. He was still thinking about names.

"It seems like we're destined to watch the young die, my friend."

Buttercup hisses at me, in a weak attempt to protest. I take a deep breath, feeling the chilly breeze of late October. I see Buttercup scratching my boots with his sharp nails, his forehead furrowed in his attempt to call my attention. But his wail is not as strong as it used to be.

Nor is my grief.

Prim lives in me. She's in the flowers I put on the table, the bread Peeta bakes every morning, the sound of the birds greeting me in the woods.

The smile of happy children running in the square.

I think about her every day; sometimes I need to make a lot of lists to focus on my own life again. But it's not grief or sorrow. It's the memory of all that we conquered, and the price we paid for it.

I adjust the new soil in the garden. Winter will cover the dirt with snow, and soon we'll forget the kitten.

But flowers will blossom over it in the spring, growing strong and beautiful.

Maybe I'll plant some primroses.

* * *

**Epilogue Two**

** Based on ****veronique2's**** proposal. **

**Years of marriage: twenty-two**

**Katniss' POV.**

**District Twelve **

These moments are so rare for me now. I want to enjoy every second of them.

Going out for a Sunday in the woods is not a common thing for me to do. And it's not because I'm in my forties. The kids always wake up early and between breakfast, clothing, bathing—Rye is developing a seriously worrying habit of not wanting to take baths—it's almost noon when I'm free to do something for myself. But not today …

I've been planning this morning for two months now. I knew when the presentation of the school chorus was going to be, and made sure that both Willow and Rye would participate. I can't say I wasn't proud to see both of them happily singing for all the parents of the District—Willow indeed has talent—but it was all part of my masterpiece. After the play, we went home to find a beautiful, pink and yummy strawberry cake that charged them with sugar. That lasted for four hours that were well spent with hide-and-seek and funny stories from Peeta. And a lot of jumping. A little bit of throwing up, but that was expected. The important thing is they are both sound asleep and they will remain like that for at least more three hours. Giving me the entire morning to hunt.

My back doesn't allow me to spend the _entire_ morning in the woods, but I have enough time to bring home a pair of squirrels.

Maybe next week I'll come here with Willow. She's seven, which is old enough to start to use a bow. I can make her a small one, with pointless arrows. Just for her to practice. Last week I showed her my bow, my Mockingjay bow, the one I'm using in the picture she has of me in her History book. I was very careful to show her the weapon, even though she can't handle it. But it's always good to be extra careful around Willow and pointed objects—she has an insatiable curiosity. Rye is still too young, and apparently more fascinated with baking than hunting. Good for Peeta.

I prepare a nice, quiet place to wait for my prey. I don't have the energy to go miles and miles inside the woods to hunt bigger animals, so I chose to stay closer to the gate and attack the first thing that comes to view. I ignore the fact that my motherly instincts won't let me stay more than two miles away from my children.

I stretch my arms when I reach for the bow. It's still as beautiful and impressive as the first time Beetee showed it to me. The synthetic material is light for a precise shot, yet firm and strong to kill graciously. My fingers run the arc, and I pull the string just to check the tension.

"What the …" But I'm too shocked and surprised to actually continue to speak.

No. She _didn't_.

I pull the string again and see that it's completely loose, disconnected from the internal device of the bow.

I can't believe she did that. How could she break a string as strong and resistant as this one?

I let out a snort that soon melts into a laugh. How had Willow managed to break my bow? Maybe she is the daughter of the Victors that managed to break an entire political regime a few years older than she is now. My laugh dies in a frown as I think about how I'll deal with this.

It's not the first time Willow has broken a rule. She's very good at it, actually. I knew Peeta and I would have a smart one when she climbed her crib as a one-year-old. Peeta almost had a heart attack.

And since then, she's always like this, testing the limits. When we tell her: "don't watch this show", she'll be there first thing the next day trying to turn on the TV. If we say, "don't play this far from the house", guess where we'll need to look for her in the afternoon? But she never did something so bold before; nothing that involved Capitol's technologic and such a great investment of money as my bow. She definitely crossed a line.

We always try to adequately punish her after she misbehaves, but this is not just a cake she wasn't supposed to eat or some teasing with a teacher. Honestly, it's very hard to raise a child. We love her so much and we want to protect her, and obeying us is the easiest way for her to feel both our love and protection. But she's so stubborn! She looks exactly like … well, me. Damn.

I collect my bow and quiver and start to calmly head back to the gate. Without a bow, there's no chance of hunting for me. The sun is rising and I can take my time to go back home … time that I need to figure out how to punish that little girl. That little, beautiful, amazing girl that has so much of me that scares both her parents. And grandmother.

Peeta is tiptoeing down the stairs as I enter the house. He moves his finger to his mouth as I close the front door, confirming what I had thought. We both go silently to the kitchen and from there to the backyard.

"Morning, hunter," he whispers as he hugs me from behind. When I left the house, he was still sleeping. "Why are you back so early?"

I turn around to face him and sit at the bench next to the primrose bushes. I let out a deep breath, placing my bow next to me.

"She crossed a line, Peeta."

He raises one eyebrow and looks at the bow. He grabs it awkwardly and his questioning expression doesn't change.

"The string. She broke it." I need to suppress a smile as he widens his eyes and finally understands.

"How … ?"

"I don't know …" I breathe out. "I showed her where I put it last week and today I found it like this."

"This is _the _bow, right?" His small wrinkle shows the smile he's trying to hide.

"This is not funny, Peeta. Our seven-year-old daughter broke a military weapon. And she had to break into our closet to find it in the first place. You know we don't let them in there."

"I know." He sits closer to me, allowing my head to rest on his broad chest. "What should we do?"

"I was going to ask you that."

"She could be grounded. Like no TV or toys for a week."

"We both know that isn't enough. We grounded her for teasing her teacher last month. This is different."

"Kids are kids, Katniss."

"Do I need to repeat the part where our daughter was playing with a deadly weapon?" I turn to face him, and his smile is back in place. I use my elbow to poke him.

"You showed it to her in the first place."

"I was trying to prepare her for future hunting lessons."

We stay in silence as different ideas pop up in my head … but none of them seems right.

"I know," Peeta finally says. "We could talk to her about how dangerous this weapon is."

"That's probably why she wanted to play with it in the first place …"

"But she need to _understand_ it. That weapon can kill people."

I feel each word echoing inside his chest. I close my eyes; this is not a day to talk about death with my children.

Peeta apparently senses the tension and hugs me closer.

"We need to talk to them eventually. They'll learn about the Games in school and questions will start. Maybe this is an opportunity."

"I just—"

A tiny voice from the kitchen's door cut whatever was going to be my protest.

"Daddy? Why are you out there?" Rye's little voice call for us, and we both look back at him. One hand is holding his stuffed bear, that was a gift from Uncle Haymitch, and the other is rubbing his sleepy eyes. I thought he was going to sleep more than that … they just keep surprising me.

"Morning, son. Come here," Peeta says in his soft, fatherly tone, opening room between us for one excited blond head. I kiss Rye's forehead as he sits on my lap, his always-present bear next to him.

"Are you feeling better?" I pat my hand over his little belly. Yesterday he got too excited with the cake. He just nods, showing us his missing tooth as he smiles.

"I want more cake." Both Peeta and I exchange a look that clearly says "no."

"You had enough yesterday … but what about you help me to bake a pie?" It's incredible how Peeta's smile is reflected on our son's face. They are both showing their dimples as Rye almost bounces on my lap, rushing to hug Peeta. This excitement for baking is definitely from Peeta's side of the family.

"C'mon!" In a second Peeta is piggybacking Rye to the kitchen, and I just watch them go. They are the men of my life. And what's that in the kitchen … ?

Her mistake was to actually appear in the kitchen's back door, and not just spy. When I look back, I see the dark curls swinging back into the room and hear Peeta's voice calling her. She probably saw the bow next to me and is now rushing back to her room.

"Willow!" Peeta places Rye on the kitchen's counter as I follow her to the stairs.

"I got it," I say to him, caressing Rye's cheek as he looks up at us questioningly.

"Are you sure? I can go with you." Peeta winds his arm around my shoulder, though his other hand stays firmly on Rye's knee to prevent the boy from falling. Differently from his sister, Rye was never good at climbing anything. Or balancing, for that matter.

"It is my bow. I should go."

Peeta's smile is weak but genuine. And I'm sure he'll end up just spoiling her instead of trying to show how wrong she was. But as I said before, it's not easy to raise a child. Even if you wait fifteen years to have one.

Her bedroom's door is locked, and I knock on it a few times. She doesn't open it.

"C'mon, sweetie, we need to talk. Open the door." I wait for another entire minute before hearing the door being unlocked. I knew that putting locks on their doors would be a bad idea.

As I enter the room, she runs back to her bed and sneaks under her blanket. I open the window before sitting next to her, though she doesn't uncover her head.

"Willow," I say calmly, searching for the edge of the blanket to make her look at me. She just presses the soft material tighter around her. "Honey, I'm not mad at you. But we need to talk."

Slowly, carefully, she starts to pull the blanket down. The first thing I can see are her dark, tangled curls. She pushes the blanket further until I can see her dark blue eyes. Her eyes are wide and scared, and that's when I'm absolutely sure she knows that this time she crossed a line.

"Are you going to ground me?" she asks in a small voice, hugging her knees closer. "I didn't mean to," she continues before I can answer. "I just wanted to play with it, but nothing could make the string move, so I had to force, and I couldn't, and then I used the—"

"The bow is automatic and just responds to my command, don't you remember?" I caress her hair and cheek, trying to calm her. She was speaking so fast I was barely understanding anything. "And it's still dangerous. You know that right?" I tuck a stray piece of hair behind her year. Her hair is an exact copy of my own.

"Yes …" She looks to the side, not meeting my eyes.

"And you also knew I had prohibited you to use it without my supervision."

"Yes …" She has the courage to actually roll her eyes.

"This is serious." I lower my tone of voice and make her look up at me. "You can't play with this kind of thing and not expect any kind of consequences."

She glances at me with those eyes that would so beautifully match Prim's. She bites her lip and exhales an apology.

"It's not going to be that easy. You'll help Uncle Haymitch's nurses for a week."

"Mom!"

"He needs help and loves you. Now go get dressed and we'll go to his house."

"But he stinks!" Her eyes change to a pleading shine that would make me laugh if it wasn't breaking my heart. Mothers are so soft …

"No 'buts'. Now go take your bath."

She grunts and leaves the room, mumbling something I'm happy that I didn't hear.

That is a good idea; always make them work when they mess up with things.

Folding her blanket and making her bed, I finally take a deep, calming breath. I really don't know what we're going to do when she's a teenager.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Don't forget to leave your feedback and your own suggestion.

Special thanks to **Project Team Beta**!


	19. Collection Of Epilogues, Volume II

_Collection Of Epilogues _

_Volume II_

**Epilogue Three**

**Epilogue Three and Four are based on the proposals of ****Bookgirl318**** and ****QueenElizabeth3andCourtJester****.**

**Years of marriage: thirteen **

**Katniss' POV**

**District Twelve**

Maybe he thought I was going to change. Maybe he imagined that with time, he would convince me and I would be happy to think as he does. But a few things never change, and this is one of these.

The spot next to me is empty and cold. After all these years of sharing a bed, I can't occupy the entire mattress. I just stay on my side, hugging my knees and trying to get some sleep.

Peeta is going to spend the night in the bakery. He said he wanted to get up early for tomorrow's shift, but the truth is that he doesn't want to argue anymore. We have been fighting every day for a week now.

The topic comes and goes; it's almost a tradition lately. It normally ends with a resigned sigh from him and some mumbled excuses from me. And we move on. Another year passes, we discuss again, we come to an understanding and that is it. The Mellark tradition.

Though this time was different. Somehow, Peeta wasn't satisfied with a resigned nod, any excuse or even my suggestion for a vacation in Four—he loves to spend time with Annie's son. He just … fought back.

_"I'm not going to say that you're being unfair …"_ The words still echo in my mind. _"I just want to talk, Katniss. Maybe if we talked about it, we could discover together that—"_

_ "There's nothing to discuss, Peeta. I'm not having kids! Period!" _My words were fierce and bitter. I was angry and … something else.

He locked himself in his painting room after that.

I don't know what happened this year … maybe Peeta saw a family in the bakery. Once, I was there and a little girl came in, her laughter matching the doorbell's high pitch. Peeta's smile blossomed in a second, and he was extremely kind, offering her chocolate muffins. The girl was a beautiful combination of parents from the Seam and the Town, which made me roll my eyes. Her blond braids were tied in a pink ribbon, and her gray eyes shined when she accepted Peeta's muffin. His smile didn't fade for almost a week.

It's not this memory that is keeping me awake now. It's not the idea of Peeta being angry and disappointed with me that is causing this insomnia crisis. It's what he said.

_"You're scared. I get it," _he said while leaving for the bakery. _"I'm also terrified with the idea. To have someone else that I'll love and risk losing it? I understand you more than you imagine, Katniss."_ With that, he closed the front door behind him.

Is he right? Is fear the reason why I'm so reluctant to have a child?

Peeta would be an excellent father, there's no doubt about it. I could try, and with him by my side, I could even manage to be an ordinary mother. Better than mine, at least. So what am I afraid of?

_To have someone that you love so much and risk losing it._

Loss. That's more than a word to me. I lived through the meaning of what it is to lose a loved one. I don't want to go through it all over again, all the pain, the suffering, the sorrow… I'm … I'm …

I'm terrified.

I sniff, brushing the tears away. Damn you, Peeta.

The blankets hit the floor as I swing my legs off the bed. I grab a jacket and a warm pair of pants; it's starting to get cold in these autumn nights.

The way to the bakery is almost a straight line, and tonight the full moon is out. I don't even need a lantern to find the brick building. The lights from the upstairs room are on, as I expected. I fumble to find the spare keys in my jacket's pocket, my hands freezing—I should have worn gloves. The wooden door cracks when I push it, but gives in easily. There is no doorbell on the back door, so maybe I'll surprise him.

"Peeta?" I call from the kitchen, but no one responds. I hang my coat next to the door and head directly to the stairs. I can't stop noticing how impeccably clean everything is. When Peeta is angry or upset, he likes to clean. And to bake. Different mixtures are ready for tomorrow's loaves and there are dozens of trays already filled with pies and cakes.

I realize I'm nervous when I start to climb the stairs. What am I doing? It's three in the morning and I want to argue with my husband. I even walked half a mile just to make sure this would happen. What am I supposed to say? "Oh, hey darling, remember a few hours ago when we argued and you said I was a coward to not even want to talk about having kids? So, you were right!"

"Peeta?" I call softly, knocking on the open door. He doesn't respond, so I enter the room as silent as I can.

He's fallen asleep with his head on the desk, the ledger under his drooling chin. I can't suppress a smile, his stubble shining under his desk lamp. With all that baking, he was too exhausted to check his account book. He probably fell asleep before even reviewing this week.

I carefully raise his head to lay the book on his shelf, replacing the hard material by a soft cushion under his cheek. He barely protests. I turn off his desk lamp and sit on the chair next to his table, watching him under the light coming from the hall.

A thought, uninvited and sudden, creeps into my mind. I picture Peeta like this, exhausted and asleep, but with a tiny bundle in the crook of his arm, with an equally tiny, little head popping out from the middle of a blue blanket. A weird shiver runs my body, and I recognize it immediately. It's the same kind of sorrow I used to feel when I remembered Prim. Or my father. It's loss, shame and pure, unforgivable fear. Scenes from my fight in the Capitol, Finnick's death and the Hunger Games mix with my thoughts of the future. I'm terrified.

Swallowing hard, I try to get rid of the sensation. But the image comes back, and hearing Peeta's soft breathing helps me to relax. In my mind, he wakes up and, with rimmed eyes and dry throat, sings a tuneless lullaby, and the shiver is back through my spine, but warmer, just a mild hint of fear. Peeta keeps singing, and the baby, our child, stretches and babbles happily under his father's protective embrace.

I open my eyes, seeing the actual Peeta sound asleep over his uncomfortable desk. My hand rests on his face, and I caress his scar above his eyebrow.

I don't know what happened this year. Something is different with him and with me too.

Maybe things are changing.

* * *

**Epilogue Four**

**Years of marriage: fourteen**

**Katniss' POV**

**District Twelve**

We have been talking. Not arguing and barking about a hopeless subject, but actually discussing the possibility of having kids. Peeta always pretends not to be overexcited, but I know him too well. I know that behind his two-week beard and frowning, he's one of the happiest men in Panem.

And now I see that the possibility of making him _the happiest_ man in Panem is in my hands.

He argues every new doubt I have. Doubts of education, how to talk about the Hunger Games, about the Capitol, about us … he is already a perfect father. At least theoretically.

But the months are passing, and I'm still under my birth control shots. After the medicine factory was ready, new pharmaceutical companies opened smaller factories here too. That means I don't have to go to the Capitol to take the shots; I do it at our District Clinic.

Peeta doesn't push it; he knows that even though we're just talking, I'm already on the edge. We don't discuss it with anyone else either. I can't even imagine what would happen if this kind of information went public. Probably endless interviews.

Still, for me, something is missing. I can't quite figure it out yet, but a spark is missing for me to finally give in.

Peeta is not pushing, though he's not being subtle either. I don't know how many times he invited Delly's family to have dinner. But that's not what is going to break me; seeing three brothers fighting over the dessert is not the best way to convince me to have my own version of that.

The woods have always been the best place for me to think. The sounds, the smells, everything here calms me and helps my mind to think clearly. It was here that I spent most of my childhood, and where I shared secrets about the Capitol with Gale. It was here that we saw that girl being arrested to become an Avox.

If I had a kid, would he or she share secrets here? Maybe with a friend, like Gale and me. But why would they have the kind of secrets I used to have with Gale? You can think and freely say whatever you want in our society. There are no Avoxes, no guards and, most important, no Hunger Games.

I take a deep breath, resting my head against an old oak tree. I didn't even bother bringing my bow; I didn't come here to hunt. A fat squirrel runs close to me, and my hunter side stays alert, but I don't need to kill it to have meat for dinner today. We live in a different time to what we grew up in. I'm safe; my family is safe.

Biting my lips, I get up and start to head for the gate. While I walk, a deep, strong realization finally emerges to the surface of my thoughts.

My fears are unsupported. At least, most of them are—I'm still freaking out with the idea of six pounds passing through my vagina. Wait, six? Look at the size of Peeta's shoulders! It could be even bigger, and oh—

Oh. I'm already imagining the possible weight of our child. The fears are fading; maybe they won't ever go away, but I'm dealing with them.

I stop to take slow, calming breaths. It's not the usual fear that is making my heart beat faster. It's something else. Like the need, the _want_ of having a little being that will be the materialization of the love I have for my husband. And, hopefully, that materialization will look like him.

"Shit," I mumble to myself between a breathless laugh. I want it. I think I do, at least.

A new excitement runs through my veins and just walking is not enough. I don't want to call too much attention to myself, but I walk as fast as I can and I don't head home. I go straight to the bakery.

The stupid doorbell rings when I enter. Just then, I realize I should have used the back door.

He is happily talking to a customer, and I flash him a small smile and head for the kitchen. He doesn't suspect anything is wrong and continues his chat about the weather or whatever he's talking about. I hear the front door ringing when the customer goes, and in a minute Peeta is in the kitchen with me.

"How was your hunt?" he asks casually, pecking me on the cheek. His beard itches against my soft skin.

"I'm not going to take it," I say fast, the decision bubbling in my chest for minutes now. He, obviously, looks confused and raises one eyebrow at me, sitting on the chair next to mine.

"Take what?" he says playfully, craning his neck to watch the door that leads to the storefront.

"The shot."

He is still oblivious to what I'm saying exactly, because otherwise he'd be jumping right now. His confused expression remains until I speak again.

"The birth control shot."

His frown continues for another second. Then his eyes widen, and his mouth is agape. The frown is back for a short moment, and I blush and nod, answering his unspoken "Are you sure?"

He searches for my hands and kisses them, a soft, long kiss that travels through my entire body. He pulls me into a tight hug, and I melt in his arms.

"I love you," he whispers into my dark hair. "And—"

The front door's bell interrupts him, and I laugh when he groans. He motions for me to stay in the kitchen and rushes to the front door. Today his assistant is not working, so he's having to deal with every costumer. The kitchen's door is open and I hear his voice while talking to the costumer.

"Good morning, Patricia! I'm so sorry, but we're closing today … I need to finish a few things in the kitchen … yes, I'll put the closed sign … thank you, you also look radiant today! ... no problem, take the cakes and the cookies. Say hello to Sandor for me!"

Just like that, he's back, already taking off his apron. I'm feeling a little nervous, and it's stupid, but I can't help it. Peeta sits down in front of me again, once more kissing my hands.

"I … I just—"

"I know." I accept his offer and lose myself in his arms, feeling the warm, safe and familiar sensation of his broad chest.

"Are you really closing the bakery?" It's my time to whisper into his hair. His curls smell like flour and cinnamon.

"Yes, I need to finish a few things here in the kitchen."

When I look up, his smile is something between joy and maliciousness. I reach up to kiss that lopsided grin.

All that time, and my spark was here. My dandelion.

* * *

**Author's Note: **If you like this topic, check out my one-shot, _"Deserved Happiness."_ It's a beautiful continuation of these two epilogues.

* * *

**Epilogue Five**

**Based on ****Bookgirl318's**** proposal. **

**Years of marriage: twenty **

**Katniss' POV**

**Capitol **

"I don't know what is happening. But he normally is a very serious kid."

I can't tell how I managed to say that without bursting into laughter. Really, Rye a serious kid? He smiles at everything!

"Okay," Kevan, the camera assistant, says in a defeated tone. "Maybe if you talk to him, you can make him show at least a tiny smile for the camera?"

"I'll try." I've never lied so easily.

It's the first time Peeta and I are bringing Rye and Willow to the Capitol. We tried to postpone it as much as we could, but deep down, we knew that it would happen anyway. The new Panem Propo Team—I'm not sure what their official name is, so that is what I call them—want a photo section with the "famous" Mellark family. Peeta and I always try to be discreet in everything we do around a camera, and now they want to mess with our kids.

The good news is that they are a hundred percent our children: one of them hates cameras and the other has a natural gift. And both of them are driving the entire crew crazy.

The cameraman is trying to tape a "making-of" from our photos, and that includes some scenes with the kids. Rye is terrified of him.

"I don't like the bug-man," he whispers in my ear when I pretend to be convincing him to smile. I need to take a deep breath to suppress my laugh. Who can blame him? These "camera-suits" do look like scary bugs. And this camera man is huge!

"Don't worry sweetie, we're going home tonight." Thankfully, this is true.

Rye's frowning disappears for a second, but it comes back as soon as he sees the "bug-man" again. I caress his blond curls and instinctively search for Willow around the set. She's running around the entire room for an hour now, pushing every button, messing with every piece of paper and asking endless questions. I really, _really_ hope she already has broken something by now.

I find her chatting happily with the woman in charge of this whole circus. She's showing my daughter the photos we took this morning. Willow is amazing in every one of them, and that's something she definitely got from her father.

Peeta is somewhere on the phone arranging our train tickets for tonight. Even if this shooting doesn't work out, we're leaving on the next train for Twelve.

"Hey kid, do you want some candy?" Kevan asks from behind me, and before I can protest, Rye is attacking the colorful sweets.

"Now! Now!" The director yells from behind as the he starts to film my son's big smile. Well played, Capitol, well played …

Sitting next to a snack table, I watch as my son devours the candy, and my daughter is back to pushing buttons. The guy from the editing table is going to have some trouble if he lets her stay that close to his work.

It's my turn to smile as I watch my children so happy in a place like the Capitol. They don't know the extent of the horrible events both their parents lived through here. They know about Prim, but they don't imagine she burned alive in the same beautiful square they visited earlier. They know that something bad like The Hunger Games used to happen, but they don't know that the same kids that died in live television used to parade down the avenue we ate ice cream in this morning.

But still … it's not exactly the same.

Panem has changed. The old regime fell years ago.

"Mrs. Mellark, can we film you with your son now?" The voice brings me back from my reverie.

"Sure," I answer lively, standing up as Rye—now charged with sugar—runs to meet me in a tight embrace.

"The bug-man is nice. He has candy!" he says, looking up at me, his arms still locked around my waist.

I smile at him, watching the same hue of gray one can find in my eyes staring back at me.

"Can I get some candy for Willow?"

"Of course, darling." He's running to find his sister even before I finish the phrase.

"Everything okay?"

I close my eyes as arms sneak around my waist. Peeta's voice and presence is something so familiar to me that I don't even need to look at him to know he's smiling. Resting my back against his chest, I nod calmly. "I got the tickets," he says, kissing my cheek.

We stay in comfortable silence as we watch the cameraman trying to convince both Willow and Rye to smile—at the same time.

"I told you there was no reason to be worried. They're fine," Peeta says, hugging me closer.

"Yes," I say, more to myself than to him. "No reason at all."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Thank you for reading. Don't forget to submit your opinion and suggestion! I don't know if I'm going to make more than three volumes—that will depend of you guys!


	20. Collection Of Epilogues, Volume III

_Collection of Epilogues _

_Volume III_

**Epilogue Six**

**Years of marriage: four**

**Katniss' POV**

**District Twelve**

My body trembles against the wooden door with each advance from outside. I can't catch the words anymore; they are just a repetitive blur that mix with my own sobs and tears. Honestly, I don't want to understand what he's saying. It will make me feel worse.

I hug my knees tighter, wanting to disappear in this small darkness. The air is damp, and there's a faint moldy scent. My mind keeps swimming back and forth into the limbo of unconsciousness.

Not a good day.

It feels like there is a cotton ball in my mouth when I open my eyes again. Everything is dark, but since I'm in the closet, I have no idea what time it is … or even what day it is. I open and close my mouth and eyes repeatedly, but the sensation of dryness and the blackness doesn't change. With a shuddering breath, I gather the remainder of my strength to stand. I hit my head on something hard, and I realize how weak I am by noticing that I don't even have the energy to complain.

With a quivering hand, I unlock the door. It cracks under my light push; I use my shoulders to open it completely.

There is a dull, mild light filling the room through the chinks of the closed window. Maybe it's early morning.

I grimace at the rotten smell that suddenly creeps into my nose. Feeling that my stomach is in knots, I need to take a calming breath through my mouth not to retch. My wobbling legs guide me to the window, which I open as fast as I can.

The light hurts my eyes, making me squint. It's definitely morning. I don't remember if it was morning or evening when I entered the closet.

It takes me a few minutes to adjust to the now bright room, though it's easy to get used to the pure air. Supporting myself against the wall, I look at our room; the closet door is a mess, with dents and holes where something heavy hit against it. I shiver, knowing it was probably a fist. The bed is in disarray; the blankets and pillows tossed on the floor. The responsible for the putrid smell is a broken bowl forgotten by the door. There is rotting stew on the wall and the floor.

All of a sudden, the sensation in my mouth is unbearable, and I stumble to the bathroom to drink water from the faucet. The sound of running water reminds me that I also need to use the bathroom.

I drag my feet to the stairs, each step creating a painful thud in my head. The house is eerily quiet. Not even the usual sounds of the morning birds come in. My stomach turns into knots again, but now I know what's wrong.

I feel guilty. When I lock myself in somewhere dark, this attitude seems the only reasonable thing to do. Though, every time I get out, this same suffocating feeling of guilt suppress all the fear and sorrow that made me run away.

"Peeta?" I call weakly, my voice rasping from the lack of use. Nobody responds. The kitchen is empty; the oven is cold. The front door is locked, and all the windows are shut.

I start to head for the painting room and see that the phone in the hallway is off the hook. The door is open, and I enter carefully, the guilt mixing with shame. Bright lights enter from the open window, followed by a soft breeze. I look around the room and find it hard to breathe.

Blank and half-finished canvases spread around the floor between broken paintbrushes and opened paint cans. Both the easels are in pieces, scattering the dark floor with wood. The paintings rip a sob from me; strong, imprecise traces that vaguely remind me of Peeta's talent depict scenes of death and disgrace. Our Hunger Games, mutilated bodies, devils from the most horrifying nightmares. All vivid and deformed, painted by desperate hands.

Completing the mess that is the room, there is Peeta, my spouse, sleeping on the wrecked couch next to the window. I don't remember the couch being torn like this.

He is having a troubled dream; his body quivers lightly, and his arms firmly brace themselves. His hands are wrapped in a makeshift bandage, and another sob flees me when I notice the dried blood under it. The morning light is more than enough for me to see his unshaved, hollow face and red-rimmed eyes.

Part of me wants to run for him, take care of his bruises, and beg forgiveness. The other part just wants to run away, lock myself in another closet, and scream that this is all my fault.

Between disappearing and rushing for Peeta, I remain still, almost not daring to breathe.

Swallowing the lump in my throat and taking a courageous step forward, I head for the couch. Each movement sends a painful bolt through my body, and I'm unable to differentiate physical from emotional pain.

His eyes are shut when I sit on the edge of the sofa, doubt still stirring in my mind. A shaking hand touches his shoulder and he stiffens, though his eyes remain closed.

"Peeta?" I whisper as softly as I can, but my voice is hoarse and fails.

Quietly, wary, he turns to me, meeting my sight with two wide, icy-blue eyes that show me he was having a nightmare. He's scared—frightened even.

Merciless guilt falls on me again.

Incapable of staring at those pools of fear and confusion, I look away. His hands close around mine with lackluster strength.

I glance at him again, watching his dry lips move.

"We will be fine," he says in a tone that matches mine. "Real or not real?"

I don't know what is going to happen. I'm sure I'll have other bad days in the future. He'll have more episodes. It won't be easy.

The first songbird of the morning echoes in the room; maybe it was already here and I didn't notice.

I kiss his bandages. I can't smile now, but I will smile again. He will, too.

So I answer heartily, "Real."

* * *

**Epilogue Seven**

**Based on ****Ninnalop's**** proposal.**

**Years of marriage: one**

**Katniss' POV**

**District Twelve**

I shouldn't be complaining. It's winter; I won't catch a lot of prey in my snares.

But it's still frustrating to not catch even a skinny rabbit to bring back home after hours in the snowy woods.

The walk back home is uneventful; not a single soul is out of its cozy, warm home this freezing morning. But what can I do? Old habits die hard. I was out of the house hours before the sun rose and watched the faint clearing of the sky from my old hunting spot. Just like old times.

The smell of fresh bread welcomes me when I open the living room door. A can't suppress a small smile at the sight of Peeta, wearing his winter pajamas and apron—and still barefoot!—taking beautiful, crispy bread out the oven. He looks confused when he sees me.

"Why are you back so early?" he asks, and I don't understand his frustration. I thought he would be happy to see me before lunch.

"Not a lot of game in the winter," I mumble, tossing my empty bag on the kitchen table.

"Right," he says more to himself, a wrinkle of frustration between his eyes. It melts into a smile before I can start to guess why he would be disappointed. "I made a cake."

"Chocolate?" My eyes are already darting around the kitchen, searching for the delicacy. He has been baking a lot lately, but just at the bakery. I'm glad that he finally made something at home. I keep telling him to find an assistant so he can have more time to bake things for us … that is, for me.

"Yup." He places his apron on the counter and sits next to me. "I'll prepare a chocolate icing later." His arms sneak around my waist, and he nudges my cheek with his warm nose. "Would you like that?"

"Who wouldn't like more chocolate?" I ask with my mouth full of the bread he left on the table. It burns my tongue a little and I spit it out. He laughs lightly.

"Can't you wait five minutes?" He stands to grab a plate for me. "I just took it out the oven."

"I'm hungry now," I say in a deep, weird voice because my tongue is still aching. He also fixes me a glass of water that I gulp gratefully.

"You know why I made the cake?" he asks out of nowhere.

"Because it's delicious?" I try to respond. He laughs and looks at me, as if waiting for me to continue. I raise one eyebrow. "What?"

He squints at me, as if searching for a better response. My eyes widen. "It's not your birthday, is it?"

"No," he says with a laugh, but now it's less genuine. "It's not my birthday." He clears his throat. "I'm going to take a bath, okay?" He kisses my cheek and heads upstairs.

I hear the sound of his heavy footsteps on the stairs, and, finally, our bedroom door shutting.

Weird. Am I missing something here?

I look around the kitchen trying to figure out what Peeta meant. It's not my birthday. Not his birthday … and I don't really care about anyone else's birthday. Maybe Haymitch's or my mother's, but their birthdays are in the summer.

My tongue is still somewhat numb when I reach for another piece of the bread. I can't quite taste it, but the crispy crust melts in my mouth after I bite it. I wish I could make good bread like this, but I don't have the talent nor the patience for it. The best one I ever made was the one for our toasting. It's been a year, and I haven't been able to repeat it since then.

My fingers are cold, and it takes an entire minute to cut another chunk of the bread. The crust dissolves on my tongue again, and I think I'll eat half of it now.

I'm still chewing when I understand Peeta's attitude.

Our toasting was a year ago! That is what he's celebrating! That is why he made chocolate cake and chocolate icing, and I don't doubt he's preparing a nice dinner too.

I totally threw cold water on his enthusiasm.

I groan, annoyed with myself. I should have written it down on the calendar or something like that. The truth is, I don't really care about dates or holidays. But Peeta does; I should be more careful with that. He's my husband, after all.

Hearing the distant sound of Peeta filling our bathtub, I start to think how I'll amend this. What can I do to make him enthusiastic about it again?

A malicious grin blossoms on my face. I think I know what I can do to make him forget about my memory lapse.

Rubbing my hands together, I make sure they are warm before heading for our room. I carefully close the door behind me and start to undress. The cold floor makes me shiver when I step barefoot on it—I don't know how Peeta does it. I sneak into the steamy bathroom as fast as I can, wearing only my panties and tank-top.

He is kneeling next to the tub, too focused on checking the water temperature to notice my light tread approaching him. His breath catches in his throat when I touch his shoulders, but he sees that it's me and relaxes.

"I entered first, so just—" Whatever he was going to say I swallow in a hurried, hungry kiss. He's taken by surprise and falls on his haunches, but I don't let him laugh. Instead, I straddle him on the floor and pull his shirt off.

"I guess you remembered," he mumbles into my hair as I reach down to kiss his now exposed collarbone.

Damn it. I thought I was going to get out of this unnoticed.

"I'm sorry," I say sheepishly, nudging his neck. He laughs and holds the weight of his upper body on his elbows, making me look at him.

"That's okay. What matters is that we're together. I just want to spend the day with you."

His satisfied smile assures me; I really want to make him feel special and loved today.

"Yes." My voice is low, and I start to lower my head to the spot between his neck and shoulder. "And I just want to make love to you right now."

He groans and pushes himself from the floor, trying to pick me up. I hold him down, pushing my hips forward and pinning him. He looks up, confused.

"The room is cold," I say while running a finger down his chest, idly playing with his golden hairs.

"But the floor …" he starts to say, and I feel my cheeks burning. I tilt my head in the direction of the hot tub, hoping he will understand. "But …" he starts again, showing me a curious smile. "We've never done it there."

"I know." He moans slightly when I caress one of his hardened nipples, pinching it between my thumb and forefinger. "Maybe we should start to explore new places."

The happy face that stares back at me reminds me of a young child receiving a present. Maybe this situation is very much like it.

"I love you." He meets me with another kiss, soft and excited. It warms me from the inside.

Next year, I'll mark this date on the calendar.

* * *

**Final Epilogue**

**Years of marriage: sixteen**

**Peeta's POV**

**District Twelve**

She is finally asleep. Her face is peaceful, relaxed. She is so tired she's snoring, and I'm smart enough to not comment about it tomorrow.

I hope she can rest during these precious, few hours of silence before Willow wakes again.

Our daughter is three weeks old. It's still a bit strange to think this, _our daughter._ I'll get used to it, but for now, I'm terrified. She's so tiny, and so, so beautiful. Her pale blue eyes will change with time, but I hope they won't. She already got her mother's dark hair; I'm honestly cheering for blue eyes—though I won't admit this to Katniss.

Katniss is extremely tired. The final month of the pregnancy was full of back pains, restless nights, and bladder problems. Her ankles swelled unlike anything I've ever seen before. And the labor … both of them were thoroughly exhausted after it. They slept for hours until Willow woke up for her first feeding. The first of many, I can assure you. She eats every couple of hours and cries louder than I thought such small lungs were capable of.

I take a deep breath, settling myself on the chair in our room. Maybe I can use these couple of hours to sleep, too. I look up at our bed, where Katniss is lying on her stomach, wrapped in her jacket and hunting pants. She hasn't changed for twenty-four hours. When Willow finally sleeps, she walks around the room, freaking out. It's when I feel most myself useful, trying to calm her—and myself, too.

We're going to be fine. We're a happy, beautiful family.

Katniss mumbles something in her sleep, but it's just a tired blur. I've tried to take off her boots, but she used her remaining strength to kick me off. I won't try for pajamas; if I wake her up now, she won't stop at just a kick.

My eyes dart back to the cradle by the window. We figured out that her favorite spot is by the window with it slightly open. I can't help but smile; she's just like me in this way.

Carefully, I stand up from my uncomfortable chair. Katniss fell asleep the minute her head touched the pillow, and she's spread over the entire bed. With baby steps, I head for the cot, where our little princess is giving her mother a break. I know I can have a noisy tread, so I try to be discreet.

Under the weak light from the hall, I watch her tiny belly rising and falling, lost in a deep sleep. All the years waiting for this were worth it. This is the right moment for both of us—I mean, for the three of us.

Silently, I watch both girls sleeping until Willow starts to stir, and soon she sounds the alarm. Katniss wakes up in a start, first confused, but soon next to me, scooping our daughter in her arms and heading for her favorite chair for breastfeeding.

We don't talk. There is no need for words; we just share a weary glance that says everything. I stand behind her chair, hugging them both as Willow sucks furiously her mother's milk. She's always hungry.

After the food and the burp—I still need to get it right; I just end up covered in vomit—Katniss sings a lullaby so she'll sleep again. By the time we rest our heads on the pillow, the sun is coming up in the sky—a dull gray starts to fill the room.

It all will start again in a couple of hours. Probably with a diaper change next time. This is finally something I'm turning out to be really good at.

Katniss' eyes close before I can kiss her good-night. But I'm satisfied with a peck on her forehead, above her disheveled curls.

They are the women of my life …

I think it's better to wait for a few months to ask for another one.

* * *

**Author's Note: **That's it, guys! I hope you all enjoyed it!

Special thanks to **Project Team Beta** and my permanent beta,**wandofhawthorn**! They are responsible for making this bunch of words something special.

Thank you for reading!

I'm sagacious-owl on tumblr ;D

— By the way, my new story is on, _Darker Path_. Check it out if you want to read it! Here is the summary:

_"The 74th Hunger Games is over, but now Katniss and Peeta have a different battle to fight. Recruited to the lascivious business of Escort Victors, they have to face an entire new set of fears and challenges. What seemed a place for the hopeless could develop into something major as other Victors have plans for Peeta, Katniss … and Panem. Adult Content."_


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